


Frailty

by shooting-stetsons (orphan_account)



Series: A Study in Lullabies Universe [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, Fem!Sherlock, Gen, Genderbend, Past Child Abuse, Rule 63, child endangerment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 07:06:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/shooting-stetsons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Great Game is on, and everything Sherlock Holmes holds dear is at stake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story is rated Teen and Up, but I consider this chapter to be rated more highly than the rest due to graphic imagery of past child abuse, and PTSD related symptoms/triggers.
> 
> Also, warning for John singing. Let the cliché jokes begin, but this song is the inspiration for the entire series and it makes a beautiful lullaby so I apologize for nothing. The song is You Were Born by Cloud Cult

"How is he?"

 

"He's fine, Sherlock, he's fine," John assured his flatmate-friend-girlfriend-whatever over the phone, shooting Mycroft Holmes an 'OK' symbol as he did. With a crooked smile the elder Holmes picked Alex from his car seat, only looking slightly overwhelmed as the baby squirmed into a more comfortable position in the crook of his elbow. "How's Russia?"

 

"Belarus."

 

"Right. How is it?"

 

Sherlock sighed. "Open-and-shut domestic. Dull. Everything is very... _quiet_."

 

Taking that as a hint, John gestured at Mycroft to keep his voice low, putting a finger to his lips. Mycroft continued to play with Alex, but kept his lips sealed firmly shut. "Do you miss us yet?" he grinned down the line.

 

“I am not dignifying that with a response.”

 

“We miss you too.”

 

He could quite fairly guess that she was smiling, especially when Alex let out a high-pitched squeal that would someday become laughter, and she let out a small huff of amusement. She’d only been gone for nine hours, but it had apparently been more than long enough to get to Minsk and close the case of the man who had stabbed his girlfriend. The next flight to London was in the morning; technically, it was Sherlock’s first time away from her son for more than a few hours, and had been calling practically on the hour since she left.

 

“Can I talk to him?”

 

“Who, Alex?” John asked, though he knew it was what she meant. “Yeah, he’s right here, I’ll put you on speaker.” He covered the mic of the mobile phone with the heel of his hand and turned on Mycroft. “Keep quiet, yeah?” The elder brother somberly nodded, and John opened up the speakers on his phone. “Okay, Sherlock, you’re on.”

 

There were several long seconds of silent static as the detective seemed to consider what to say to an infant who could not yet even distinguish the visual difference between his mother and an abductee. Then, with John and her brother listening (though she was not aware of the latter), she quietly said, “Alex? Allie, can you hear me? It’s...it’s Mum. Mummy. I-it’s Mum, Alex. Can you hear me - John, can he hear me?”

 

“He’s looking around for you, Sherlock.” It was the truth; from the confines of Mycroft’s arms the baby was swinging his head around with wide boggling eyes the moment Sherlock started to speak.

 

He could practically hear the sad smile in Sherlock’s voice. “I’ll be home soon. I...love you, Alex. I’ll talk to you later, John.” She rung off before he could say goodbye, though he was hardly able to listen when his eyes were glued to Mycroft’s face. He looked oddly touched by his sister’s brush with tenderness, as though it was truly a rare event, and only served to remind John of why he really was at the man’s office.

 

The previous afternoon, John had come home to find that Violet Holmes, Sherlock and Mycroft’s mother, had dropped in to visit. When at first he’d been rather pleased to meet the woman who had brought up such extraordinary children, within moments the meeting turned into a train wreck of insight into Sherlock’s childhood. The woman was cold, ruthlessly so, and treated her daughter as though she were mentally deficient. She was apparently under the impression that John was a live-in doctor rather than a friend to Sherlock, because according to her Sherlock was incapable of making friends. It was only when the woman had blatantly tried to convince them that _she_ ought to raise Alex, and that the reason Sherlock had problems was because her _father_ \- after whom Sherlock named her son - had been a bad parent, that John decided enough was enough and threw her out.

 

For the rest of the day and well into the night Sherlock had been deeply disturbed by the dredging-up of her past. She’d sat huddled in her armchair with John for an hour before mustering the will to move, let alone speak or even fully function. At John’s urging she tried to nap for a while, but kept jerking awake and looking around as though sensing an axe-murderer in the room, and quickly gave that up. Even though she admitted to being hungry she ate like a bird, too jumpy and anxious to focus on any task for long. 

 

Luckily, John was able to get her to go to bed at a decent hour, and climbed in with her to simultaneously keep her company and to get Alex if he woke up in the night. Until three in the morning they all slept soundly until Sherlock suddenly woke up gagging on bile, and vaulted out of bed to be sick and sit awake in the kitchen until dawn. Then she’d gotten the email from Belarus and been off on the first flight, before John could piece together how to help her.

 

He sat up with a cup of strong coffee and his laptop after Sherlock left, playing around with his blog but otherwise completely lost in thought, trying to make a plan of action. After she’d called three times to check in on them (once from the plane - not good) he had come up with a tentative idea, and cleaned up his dishes. He called Mycroft Holmes, asking if he wanted to see Alex for a while, though fully intending to find out more about the Holmes children’s childhood. A car picked him and the baby up at half-three; Mycroft had beamed at the sight of his nephew, but it had done nothing to sway John’s grudging feelings for the government man.

 

“Can I ask you something?” asked John once he’d put his phone in his pocket and settled in the chair on the other side of Mycroft’s desk. At his nod, he ploughed on. “Your mother came by yesterday.”

 

The man’s eyebrows quirked. “That wasn’t a question, Doctor Watson.”

 

Still rankled from the way Violet Holmes had called him “Doctor” in such a condescending manner, John pursed his lips. “Why is it you insist all you care about is Sherlock’s well-being, and yet you allow that wretched woman to come within twenty miles of her?”

 

Mycroft looked puzzled; everything about him seemed to settle and still in the wake of John’s question. Even Alex stopped moving. “I know that Sherlock and our mother don’t have the best relationship, but I’m not entirely sure I understand your tone,” he said.

 

“You don’t-? Listen, did your family have surveillance cameras in the house while you were growing up?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Do you still have the footage?”

 

“I...believe it’s been digitized somewhere in the archives, yes. Care to explain, Doctor?”

 

John shook his head. “I wouldn’t know where to begin.” At least not without hitting or shooting something.

 

After several long moments wherein John knew he was being thoroughly examined and tried to keep his features as neutral as possible, Mycroft nodded and picked up the phone with his free hand. Within twenty minutes the files had been found, and Anthea brought up a removable hard-drive with the necessary contents. John thought he saw her smile at Alex before she left, though she could also have been smiling at her phone.

 

“Just what are we looking for?”

 

“Anything from after you left for university.”

 

The older man shot him a suspicious glance but handed Alex over to navigate through the files on his computer. “Shall I choose any random day, or do you have a preference?” There was a hint of nervous skepticism in his voice, as though he were hoping if he made a joke the anxiety would go away. He chose their grandmother’s birthday the year after her death on a whim, when Sherlock was fourteen years old. The screen divided into four separate views inside the house: one in the foyer, one in what appeared to be a back hallway leading to the garden door, one in a garage, and another in the drawing room aimed at the wide French windows. There were more folders for different rooms of the house as well, the three family bedrooms and the basement. At John’s urging, Mycroft used his second computer monitor to bring those up as well.

 

Mycroft hit the fast-forward key and left the rest of the controls to John, but as the shorter man insisted, he didn’t know what to look for. Sherlock was in her room for much of the day, reading; it was strange to see her so young but otherwise alarmingly the same. Still lanky, still with a ponytail taming her long black curls, still with what looked like a permanent scowl on her pretty face, though it was hard to tell with the old video’s low resolution.

 

It wasn’t until nearly three-quarters of the way through the day’s footage that John finally instructed Mycroft to slow down. The family had all vanished from the cameras’ view and reappeared as though after a meal; Alexander Holmes had retreated somewhere out of view of the cameras, but Violet was escorting her youngest child into the drawing room. She sat Sherlock in a chair that was only half in view of the camera and stood several feet farther into the room, her tall, elegant stature perfectly framed.

 

“Is there sound?”

 

“Mm, perhaps. Let me fiddle.” He entered a few key-strokes but frowned. “No, I don’t think so. I’ve never had cause to look back on this footage before. Perhaps if you elaborated what you’re-?”

 

But John had already felt the blood drain from his face as he continued watching the tape, and grabbed Mycroft’s shoulder to swing him around and see. Violet was speaking, her shoulders shaking with vehemence. Sherlock had started to curl in around herself in the exact same way she had at the flat the day before - and, John suddenly remembered with a chill, the day before that when he’d been getting worked up about wanting to have a normal life. When Violet noticed her daughter’s slumping posture she lashed out and slapped the girl; Mycroft gasped audibly and clapped a hand over his mouth. The show of emotion was startling.

 

After another few minutes it seemed that the mother-daughter chat had come to a close, and Sherlock scampered up the stairs with a hand clutched to her cheek. “This could be an isolated incident,” Mycroft reasoned, sounding more like a plea than statement.

 

“Then try another day,” John practically snarled, still staring transfixed at the screen. He was glad he’d put Alex in his car seat before joining Mycroft at the computer. “Any other day, take your pick.”

 

And so Mycroft chose another day, this time truly random, and got a weekday three years later. That helped eliminate half the day, as Sherlock was at lessons with her private tutor until the afternoon, but John watched the Holmes parents go about their business. Just before Sherlock was due home Violet answered the phone in the kitchen and went dangerously still. Her eyes looked black in the fuzzy picture.

 

When seventeen-year-old Sherlock arrived home she was instantly brought to the drawing room and placed back in the same chair. Violet’s tirade was more passionate than three years before, more heated, with more exaggeration of her arms for emphasis. Then it seemed Sherlock snapped something back at her, simultaneously jerking forward and ducking her head, and Violet lost control. She yanked her daughter by the hair - John was beginning to understand the need for a ponytail, now - out onto the floor. With one hand still anchoring her down, Violet swung her open hand and hit Sherlock repeatedly on the back and sides, using the flat of her palm to prevent bruising. Sherlock’s father was in the parents’ bedroom, slumped on the bed with his head in his hands.

 

John looked at Mycroft to see the man white as a sheet and staring at the screen with his mouth hanging open, and felt a small stab of guilt for springing this upon the other man. He honestly hadn’t known, whereas John had assumed he just hadn’t done anything about it. Which was a foolish thing to assume, he now understood. “Your mother came in yesterday and started saying some horrible things about Sherlock. She called her _retarded_ , and seemed under the impression that she ought to take Alex home and _raise him properly_.”

 

In an odd mirror-image of his father, Mycroft lowered his head into his hands. “No wonder Sherlock loathes me,” he dryly quipped. “All this time thinking I was allowing such gross abuse to carry on, when in reality I was completely in the dark.”

 

“You never knew?” John asked.

 

“ _No, I never knew_ ,” snapped Mycroft as he raised his head again. “I’ve spent my life trying to look after my sister; do you really think if I had known I wouldn’t have gotten out of that house with her under my arm, whether she wanted to go or not?”

 

After only a moment’s hesitation, John shook his head. Mycroft was creepy and domineering, but he meant well. He stayed another hour, drinking too much tea while Mycroft distractedly played with his nephew. The older man (who really was only a year or two older than John, he realized to his shock after a few minutes’ conversation) was completely enamored with the infant, and even volunteered to change Alex’s diaper when the time came. When he brought Alex back from the toilet his nappy was hanging half off of him and Mycroft looked embarrassed.

 

The flat seemed darker and very quiet when John brought Alex home, despite the fact that it was still early in the afternoon. In the past weeks he really had become accustomed to Sherlock’s presence, and was feelings the lack of it very strongly now. 

 

Alex was tuckered out from so much activity with his uncle and sleeping soundly even as John transferred him from the car seat to his cradle in Sherlock’s room. He’d be out-growing that and be sleeping in a proper cot soon enough, and the very thought that John had been right there with this tiny family to see that growth happen made his chest ache. It felt like being granted private access to a very elite club without all the pretentiousness. He got to be there as Sherlock learned how to balance caring for her son and keeping herself healthy - even if that particular leap had only been in the past 24 hours - and been present for Alex’s first smile. Usually only fathers had that privilege, and when before that had unsettled John to the point of contemplating moving out of Baker Street, he now felt blessed to live there. It even softened the bluntness of colicky nights and baby-vomit on his only jacket.

 

He had beans on toast for his supper, not up for cooking up anything extravagant if he was on his own, and shortly after he ate it was time to feed Alex. Then, of course, it was time to burp him, and then change him. He felt admirably self-sufficient, even if a little voice in the back of his head kept reminding him that one day and night with the baby was a lot different from a lifetime. Sherlock had been driving herself half to the grave trying to keep up with the demanding hours of her work and shouldering all the responsibility of caring for her son, and John made a note to insist on helping more often. He liked caring for Alex, and since it was doubtful he would ever have his own children this was a happy compromise for him.

 

In the evening John looked up developmental milestones on his computer with Alex in his lap, trying to gauge where the child was in his adjusted age. Alex had been born five weeks early, so if he was twelve weeks from birth that put him at seven adjusted weeks. However, John was pleased to see that Alex was a small way ahead of seven weeks; he’d already started reaching out and holding things placed in his grasp, and was able to track movements close to his face to some degree, and recognized Sherlock’s voice a bit better than Mrs. Hudson’s. The website suggested talking or singing, so John read the rest of the article aloud and smiled at Alex’s reactions.

 

Despite his earlier nap Alex was still tuckered out from playtime with his uncle, and so John gave him a bath in the sink while telling cleaned-up stories from his army days. “Ah, this is fun isn’t it, lad? Just us blokes, no Mum to breathe down my neck and tell me I’m doing it wrong, Uncle Mycroft is setting his goonies on Big Bad Granny...this isn’t half-bad, is it?” he asked fondly as he cautiously rinsed Alex’s hair. It was getting just long enough to start curling around the edges now, like his mum’s.

 

By the time Alex was clean and dry he was fighting sleep and fussy. It was really the only time all day that John felt slightly out of his depth, but it was nothing compared to his colic. He held Alex close and rocked him gently, softly singing a song one of the girls in his regiment had been constantly humming back in Afghanistan, and they’d all known the words to by the end, and they’d all sung together at her funeral. Poor Annika.

 

“You were born into a strange world

Like a candle, you were meant to share the fire

I don’t know where we come from

I don’t know where we go

But my arms were made to hold you

And I will never let you go

 

“You were born to change this life

You were born to chase the light

You were born”

 

He paced around the flat as he sang in his wobbly off-key voice, trying not to think too much about Annika in an effort to prevent nightmares later on. She’d died in a roadside bombing near Kabul. Whenever they had long walks ahead she would be in the back of the group singing her heart out to keep their spirits up even in the blistering sun. They all pretended to be annoyed because they were _men_ and she was just some girl with a loud voice who talked too much - even called her Little Orphan Annie in an attempt to get on her nerves, but it only pleased her more because she’d always wanted to be in a West End musical - but sorely missed the music when she was gone.

 

“Oh my precious, oh my love

When they come to take me I will hold you from above

I don’t know why we’re here

And I don’t know how

But I’m here with you now

I am here with you now

 

“You were born to change this life

You were born to make this right

You were born to chase the light

You were born.”

 

By the time he’d finished Alex had settled down greatly. John kissed the crown of his head and settled him in his cradle, hovering over him for a few minutes just because he couldn’t seem to tear himself away before crawling into Sherlock’s bed. He was surprised by how tired he felt once he was horizontal, and was asleep within a few minutes of touching the pillow. All in all, it had been a nice day, even if he did miss Sherlock.

 

It didn’t matter that she hadn’t replied when he told her he loved her.

 

It didn’t matter one bit.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock's mind was in constant motion as the aeroplane shuddered with turbulence somewhere over the Channel. Her flight was expected to land at 7:00am at Heathrow, and she was exhausted by disappointment in her failed ventures. For some reason the case in Belarus had seemed appealing, though thinking back on the first message it was obviously a dud. 

 

She had not been thinking straight, that much was obvious, and only made her long-harbored hate for her mother more profound. In the four years since she'd last seen the woman Sherlock had managed to file her emotional levels and reactions down to near non-existence. Nothing could touch her, and nothing could hurt her. Then she'd had to go and have a baby, and of course she had to make emotional exceptions for her son - not that her hormone levels gave her much choice in the matter. She'd made preparations to account for the spike in emotional state, knowing that a hormonal change was inevitable with pregnancy and childbirth. What she hadn't accounted for was that those changes might not be temporary. Her mother's reappearance had toppled down whatever flimsy walls had remained to protect her once-impregnable mind. 

 

It was humiliating to buckle under the simple words that she'd tried so hard to push away, especially in front of John, so she'd attempted to suppress it all until it made her physically ill. Not Good, as John liked to say. She hated being in a position of vulnerability, but it seemed she could be nothing else when her mother was near. Something about the woman’s presence reverted her back to the state of a terrified, damaged eleven-year-old.

 

Once in the airport she nearly walked right past the man bearing a sign with her name, too distracted when a year previously she would have seen and intentionally missed him. Instead once she recognized that he was there for her she slowed and hesitated, cursing herself as soon as she did and he gestured her away. It was obvious that Mycroft would be waiting in the nondescript black car on the curb, but she was tired and didn't care to pay for a cab and it would be easy to ignore him.

 

"Welcome back," her brother said as she slid into the back seat. "I hope your trip was successful?"

 

She closed her eyes and leaned against the window. If he kept on with the trivialities she might snap, but otherwise his voice might even be able to help her sleep.

 

Mycroft was annoyingly unruffled, as usual. "I wanted to tell you that I've had a word with Mummy." Every nerve in her body sprang to attention, but as her heart began to race she kept herself still. "She won't be coming near you or your son again, and I am sorry I ever used her to threaten or influence you."

 

She remained still, though bile burned in her throat and chest.

 

"I wish you had said something," he continued quietly. "It's not your fault, of course, and it's useless to have regrets for something one cannot change, but I do wish you had said something." He took a deep slow breath; it was shaky and unsettled Sherlock to her core. "From the moment you were born, Mummy and Father were telling me to protect you, to guide you, to look after you and teach you, and nearly three decades later I find out the greatest threat was inside the walls meant to shield you. I hope you can someday forgive me for never seeing."

 

He didn't speak again for the rest of the journey, didn't ask anything of her or try to make her forgive him. At long last she had the space she always craved, but at a price that flushed her whole body with shameful heat.

 

The car pulled up at 221B, and for appearances' sake she pretended to be asleep until Mycroft shook her arm before getting out without a word. There wasn't anything for her to say that wouldn't come out sounding acerbic or ingenuine. The driver retrieved her bag from the boot and she hurried up the steps to the building, forcing herself not to look back at the car as she unlocked the front door.

 

John and Alex were already awake, though sleepily subdued as they greeted her with wide smiles. Feeling as though her skin was too tight and on crooked, she wrapped her arms around the both of them at once and tried to dismiss the feeling with a sigh. John kissed her temple as she leaned down to kiss Alex before pulling him into her own arms. "Was he okay?" she asked, allowing Alex to grab her finger and swing it around.

 

"He was brilliant," John beamed, "we had loads of fun, didn't we, lad?" Alex smiled toothlessly up at him, and he drifted back to where he'd been at the cooker. "I was just going to make some breakfast. Want any, or are you having a lie-in?"

 

She weighed her options carefully. If she stayed up he would make her eat, and she felt heavy and slow enough after the flight as it were. However, if she went to sleep she would probably wake up ill again, and would have to put off spending time with Alex even longer. It was a lose-lose situation. At last she sighed, "I suppose I'll have a bit of toast." John looked sickeningly pleased.

 

After her modest breakfast Sherlock took Alex into the sitting room, and laid out a blanket on the floor before lying across from him on her stomach. They played with his plush blocks for ten minutes, and for another five with a sheet that she would hold up between them and then drop down, theoretically to help him recognize her face. It was inconclusive whether or not it actually helped, but the joyful look that crossed Alex’s face every time he saw her again made her feel like it was worth it even without the progress. No one had ever looked at her the way Alex did before, with so much trust, so much faith. It both buoyed her when black moods threatened to roll in and terrified her when she finally felt as though she were getting things right.

 

She was tired enough after playing with Alex - should have slept the night before, but the disappointment in the bad case and anticipation of another bad night - that John insisted if she wasn’t going to go to bed she ought to at least have a lie-down on the sofa, and she didn’t disagree. John was a special case too, after all. Somehow or another he was able to convince her to do things no one else was capable of. In the past years if Mycroft or Lestrade would have suggested she take it easy or lie down she would have laughed in their faces and flounced off wherever she damn well pleased - even if it had resulted in a heart-attack when she was twenty-five. But John...when John asked her to do something, she found it difficult not to want to please him.

 

During her brief rest on the sofa she had a disturbing dream, in which she was in the hospital giving birth to Alex while surrounded by Victor Trevor, her mother, Seb Wilkes, General Shan, Jefferson Hope, and an androgynous black cloud that she knew deep down was the untouchable being Moriarty. They were all staring at her, waiting, and a voice - John's voice - broke through the mayhem as the crowd of malicious onlookers drew nearer, calling out her name. Her mother and Victor pulled her legs back, waves of violation rolling over her as contracting pain and the straps around her arms crippled her from fighting back. The cabbie, Jefferson Hope, stuck his filthy hands inside of her and she screamed in his face. With a horrendous surge that felt like half of her organs had fallen out Hope raised Alex from between her legs, looking just as he had when Sherlock fell asleep. Somewhere John was shouting her name.

 

"Give him to me," she tried to say, but no sound come from her lips. Hope held him out to her in offering and she tried to reach for him, but her arms were still strapped down. "Give him to me!"

 

With a look of comical bewilderment, Hope held the squalling baby to the room at large like an offering. Sherlock pulled against her restraints as her own name echoed through her mind. The black cloud Moriarty drifted forward until Alex and the cabbie were completely engulfed, growing larger until it filled half the room.

 

John called her name again, but it did nothing to quell the sudden panic swelling in her chest. "Give him back! Let him go! _Let me go! John! John, they took him!_ "

 

A pair of hands grasped her shoulders and she woke up gasping, shoving a hand knuckle-deep into her mouth in just enough time to keep from screaming aloud as terror shrieked through her veins, even as her mind already started building walls against it. Each breath curled into a ball in her throat, building and fighting against each other until it felt like she was choking on her own air. The hand that wasn’t muffling her cries was curled around her now-concave stomach, as though protecting something that was no longer there.

 

A hand settled, warm and rough, on the back of her neck, but she shuddered away into the back cushions of the sofa. He instantly backed off. At least she wasn’t vomiting like the night before, or the night before that. “Take it easy, Sherlock,” John said. “You’ve just had a bad dream.”

 

“Yes, I know, thank you John,” she growled into the cushions, crawling up onto shaking legs to get as far away from his hovering and the sofa and the chilly window as possible. There were any number of things that could have triggered the dream, and she was not going to put up with them for another moment. They would have to redecorate the flat. That would fix it.

 

She spent the rest of the day in a restless flurry of activity, checking her emails for new cases and texting Lestrade. The first only annoyed her with needless idiots who had problems that didn’t matter, and Lestrade just kept replying to her texts with _You have a concussion for fuck’s sake take a few days off_. As if. 

 

Still idly puttering on her computer in the kitchen while John read the newspaper, she decided on a whim to look up the ridiculous blog she’d found the night after she met John. Naturally she had looked up her potential flatmate before allowing him anywhere near her or her son, and had stumbled upon the blog on accident. At first she’d found the posts of “Nothing,” and “How do I delete this?” to be annoyingly self-depreciating. Then she’d found his message to his therapist asking if she was happy he was finally writing something. All of that had been to annoy that Ella woman, and the idea made Sherlock smile to herself at the time. He found authority and being bullied around just as tedious as she did. Then of course there had been his mention of the serial suicides that would eventually lead up to...

 

_A Study in Pink?_

 

He hadn’t mentioned that she had a son, probably to protect him in case anyone off-color ever did happen across her name online and find that information, which she appreciated. As Sherlock read the account of the mad cabbie case, how she had read him like a book and moved in with her after only a few hours’ deliberation, she felt a deep pit of warmth forming in her chest. “It’s no use trying to hide what you are because Sherlock sees right through everything and everyone in seconds. What’s incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant she is about some things.”

 

Sherlock hadn’t expected reading that to feel like a kick to the chest. Nor had she expected it to put her in the foulest mood she’d experienced since the rigorous therapy she’d been forced through in childhood. For the rest of the day she harrumphed pointedly around the flat until it became clear that John wasn’t going to notice - namely when he left. 

 

Instead she called the morgue and had Molly - a very easily-manipulated mouse of a girl who worked at St. Bart’s who was so desperate to be Sherlock’s friend that she would do nearly anything - bring a head over and stick it in the fridge. Once her new experiment was safely situated Sherlock “accidentally” dropped a book, waking Alex from his nap and making it all too easy to ask Molly to come again for girls’ night another time. That done, she took up the penknife from the mantle and started carving faces into the wallpaper. For a touch of flair she used a can of yellow spray paint the Chinese smugglers had left behind and colored in the faces’ yellow eyes. Then she gave them yellow hair too, so they looked like John bloody Watson, and picked out their teeth in little chunks of wallpaper.

 

“What the _hell_ are you doing?”

 

It was surprisingly easy to turn her head toward John, who was gaping at her from the door, and lie. “Bored.”

 

“What?!”

 

“ _Bored!_ ” she roared at him before stabbing the wall again. “I’m _so - bloody - bored, John!_ ” With each word she punctuated it with another vicious strike into the ugly wallpaper. Alex gave an indignant shriek from his basket, and she stormed to his aid once John had pried the penknife from her hands. “I see you typed up the taxi driver case,” she continued as she hugged her son to her chest, sussing in his ear in an effort to comfort him and, in her own way, apologize. “‘A Study in Pink’?”

 

Still staring despairingly at the wall, John shook his head and sank into his chair. “Yeah, I dunno, it made sense. Pink lady? Pink phone? Thought you’d be pleased.”

 

“‘Sherlock sees right through everything and everyone in seconds. What’s incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant she is about some things,’” she quoted.

 

“I didn’t mean it like that!”

 

“Oh, you meant it in the _nice_ way?” she retorted sharply, then brought her tone down when Alex whimpered and batted a fist at her. “I don’t care about that pedestrian rubbish. Stuff like who the Prime Minister is or which celebrities are shagging-”

 

“-or whether the Earth goes round the sun-”

 

“What the hell does that matter?! I get my work done in the end all the same.”

 

“It’s primary school stuff, Sherlock!” argued John.

 

“I just said it doesn’t matter! Whether we go round the Earth or the sun or round and round the garden, like a teddy bear, I don’t hold many things in high esteem, John, but the few things that I do are-”

 

“Your work and your son, I know,” John dismissed quickly, not meeting her eyes.

 

Sherlock bit her lip and glowered at him over Alex’s head. He’d forgotten another vital party in his haste to be contradictory, but she wasn’t about to point it out if he were being deliberately obtuse.

 

Sensing her irritation, John sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Fine, whatever. My parents are coming into town later, and I’m going to Harry’s to see them. I don’t imagine you’ll want to tag along, my life being so dull and all. Have we got anything in?” He got up and went to the fridge, exclaiming loudly over the severed head. Sherlock smiled to herself. “Actually, I think I’ll just go to Harry’s now.” He stormed out. Sherlock frowned as Mrs. Hudson padded up the stairs past him. She hadn’t meant to make him leave, only to admit he was wrong.

 

“You two have a little domestic?” chirped the landlady, dropping a kiss onto Alex’s head before peering out the window after John. “He should’ve wrapped up a bit more, poor la- _Sherlock Holmes, what’ve you done to my bloody wall?!_ ”

 

Within three minutes and seemingly endless platitudes about how a charge in their rent would cover the damages, Sherlock was left alone. Well, not completely alone, but infants rarely counted as intellectually stimulating company. Still, there was something in how Alex smiled sleepily up at her as she put him back in his cot under the window that made her feel better. She disposed of the head, deeming it a lost cause for the night, fed Alex, then sat in the other window to try and think quietly for a while before falling asleep.

 

John told her he loved her. Why had he done that? Certainly, it had had a strong affect on her - unable to contain the maelstrom of pent-up hideous feeling clawing away at her insides, Sherlock had cried out and pulled her arms around his waist - but she would only be kidding herself if she took such a declaration seriously. He’d been trying to placate her in the wake of her mother’s destruction. That was all.

 

She felt the explosion milliseconds before the boom, and had no warning before being thrown halfway across the sitting room with broken glass raining down over her head. Blinded by dust and smoke, Sherlock groped helplessly as her ears throbbed and rang, trying to find purchase in chaos. Her pulse thundered in her head, and she fought to keep it upright even while feeling like it weighed a hundred pounds. Then Alex’s screams broke through. It felt like time stopped as Sherlock tried to get up, tried to find him, because _oh, god, the basket was in the window-_

 

The door banged open, and two sets of hands griped her as her vision grayed out, her son’s cries echoing in the destruction.


	3. Chapter 3

John didn’t often visit with his family, but when the months stretched together like gaping holes in his favorite sheets, and he started missing them enough to do so, he remembered why. It wasn’t that his parents were terrible people or anything, but if there were an Olympics for championship bickering his mum and dad would take the gold every season hands-down. The constant natter of “Don’t you turn on that telly, Hamish Watson, we are having a family dinner!” and “Oh, the kids don’t mind, Joan, you fuss about too much,” inevitably accompanied by Harry’s tipsy giggling got a bit grating after two hours of exposure. Still, they were his only family, and annoying as they were John knew that he was far from perfect and loved them very much.

 

Four times in the course of the evening Dad tried to turn on the telly - he was a newshound - and each time Mum stopped him with a short look and a brief glance at John. At first he was puzzled, until finally the fifth time rolled around and Mum whispered, “For goodness’ sake, Hamish! What if there’s something about Afghanistan on?!”

 

“What?” John asked, bewildered, and his parents looked up like guilty children. “Dad, you can watch the news if you want to. I’m not going to have a PTSD attack if they mention the war, and if I do, I promise I’ll mention it first.” He smiled, trying to be light-hearted and reassuring, but Harry’s sniggering took away all affect.

 

“The same way you mentioned you’re living with a woman with a kid?”

 

“Harry!”

 

“What’s that?” asked Mum, turning to John with her mouth hanging open. “Johnny, love, I’m not a granny, am I?”

 

A blush rocketed up his face. “No! God, no, it’s not like that! My flatmate has a kid, that’s all. Cripes, I’ve not even been home long enough to have had a baby with a random woman, Mum!” He turned on his sister with an accusatory finger pointed at her. “And _you_ can quiet down right now, thanks.”

 

“They fight _crime!_ Like _superheroes!_ ”

 

“Why don’t you have _another_ drink, Harry?”

 

“Oi, don’t get fresh with me in my own house, soldier-boy!”

 

“ _Let’s just watch the ruddy telly!_ ” Dad roared. Glaring daggers at one another, John and Harry sat on opposite ends of the sofa while their dad switched on reruns of Fry and Laurie. At least it wasn’t the bloody news. 

 

John texted Sherlock three times but she refused to answer - being stubborn, no doubt - and he deigned to ask his sister for a spot on her sofa when their parents retreated to the guest room for the night. In response she groaned and threw a pillow at him, which he took for a ‘yes.’ He texted Sherlock once more to tell her about his temporary arrangement, then powered off his mobile for the night and fell asleep, neck already aching.

 

In the morning the first thing he heard was Mum singing in the shower, and for a terrifying moment he was twelve years old again, back at home, where none of the extraordinary things in his life ever happened. Then he smelled bacon, Dad’s favorite and the bane of Mum’s existence, and knew that Harry was indulging their father. John sat up, groaning and rubbing his neck as it cricked painfully, and smiled at his dad and sister. Harry’s eyes were bloodshot but cheery, and Dad was already tucking into his toast. “Morning, son.”

 

“Dad. News?”

 

“Please.”

 

Digging into the sofa, John tracked down the remote and turned on the telly, then rubbed his neck again. “Christ Harry, was your sofa specifically developed in Baskerville to torture people?”

 

“You could’ve used the lie-low,” his sister said, pointing at the cupboard with her spatula. “But did you ask? Nope! So sofa it is, then, and a sore neck to boot, you poor bastard.”

 

He grumbled under his breath and tried to crack his neck as he sat at the table. Mum, still humming to herself, shuffled out of the bathroom toweling her hair and gasped at the telly. “Oh, goodness, turn it off!” she demanded, reaching for the remote.

 

John sighed. “Mum, it’s fine, really, news about Afghanistan isn’t going to-”

 

_It has been confirmed that the bomb went off on Baker Street at around seven last night._

 

As though there were a wire attached to the back of his neck John’s head snapped up. He reached blindly and snatched the remote from Mum’s hand, turning up the volume to hear over his increasingly-befuddled family.

 

_There were no fatalities, but a young woman and her infant son were taken to the hospital for treatment and overnight observation._

 

A grainy mobile video showed paramedics towing two stretchers from the front door of 221B in the dark evening, one with a dark-haired woman and one with an infant wrapped in blankets. An icy chill ran down John’s back, and he looked around for his mobile. Surely it would have.... He dug it out of the bottom of the sofa cushions and powered it on with one hand tangled in his hair, swearing fluently under his breath and ignoring his parents’ concerned looks.

 

There were five texts from Sherlock and one voicemail from Mycroft.

 

_A bomb went off across the street._

 

_Alex’s basket fell over we’re in the hospital._

 

_John, he has a concussion and inhaled dust._

 

_I don’t know what to do_

 

_Come home_

 

_“John, this is Mycroft Holmes. I’m afraid that there’s been an incident on Baker Street, and my sister and nephew have been hospitalized. It would be in everyone’s best interests, I believe, if you went home now.”_

 

“Shit, I have to go,” John announced in a shaking voice, feeling like he was about to be sick as he stumbled for his shoes. “I’m sorry, this is...I have to go. Love you, Mum, Dad. Harry, I’ll see you!” He was running before he even hit the pavement outside Harry’s building, unsure of where to go but knowing that he was needed somewhere else. He called Sherlock’s mobile as he hopped onto the bus, shouldering past a sour-looking youth attached to his headphones. The call went straight to voicemail each time he tried until he was a block away from the Baker Street stop.

 

_What, John?_

 

“Sherlock, are you all right?” he asked immediately. “I’m so sorry, I had my phone off and-”

 

_It doesn’t matter._ Her voice was monotonous, dead-sounding and too soft to even be cold. _It doesn’t matter._

 

His mouth went dry and he had to swallow as he got off the bus. “What happened? Is Allie gonna be okay?” The nickname slipped out without a moment’s thought, and he felt shame burning his gut. His mind went back to four days ago, when Sherlock had blithely announced that she would kill herself if anything happened to her son. A cold chill ran down his spine.

 

He burst through the door to 221B to get some clothes and toiletries to bring along to the hospital, but instead found Sherlock and her brother seated across from one another in the sitting room. Sherlock carelessly dropped her phone into the recesses of her chair and started plucking at the strings of her violin. The windows were boarded up behind her, casting the flat with an eerie half-glow, and there were new cuts and bruises standing out around the edges of her pale skin. John rang off his mobile and looked between the siblings. “I didn’t think you’d be here,” he said, not specifying which Holmes he was referring to. “How’s the baby?”

 

Interrupting his instinctive movements toward the basket that usually sat in the window - oh, god, still lying on its side - Sherlock announced, “Alex is still in hospital. They want to keep him until they’re certain he won’t die of the concussion. It was a gas leak, apparently.” Her eyes shone like blades, not looking directly at any of them in favor of staring at her destructive art project from the night before. Then her glance shot up to her brother. “As you can see, I’m unavailable for anything right now.”

 

“I understand,” nodded Mycroft instantly, though there was something more to his voice. “Your obligation is to your son. So perhaps you ought to be with him instead of here?”

 

“If you’re so keen on this ‘national matter’ then why don’t you investigate?” Sherlock retorted rather than answering him.

 

Mycroft gave a single shake of his head. “I can’t, not with the Korean- well. Not to mention it requires legwork I don’t have time for. I’ll leave the papers with Doctor Watson, shall I? It’s pertaining a young agent, Andrew West, and a set of confidential missile plans falling into the wrong hands. You might even find it interesting, Sherlock.” He passed a neat stack of folders to John, who took them with skepticism. John and Mycroft shared a solemn look, one that clearly said ‘look after her’ from the elder, before he made his leave to the screech of a violin bow over strings.

 

Obviously frustrated, Sherlock put her violin aside and slouched in her chair, pinching the bridge of her nose. There were cuts and bruises on her hand. “I don’t get it,” said John. “Why aren’t you at the hospital with Alex?”

 

She shrugged. “I’m not a doctor or nurse. What could I possibly do other than get in the way?”

 

“Sit with him? Make him feel safe?”

 

“John,” she laughed bitterly. “He’s hardly twelve weeks old and won’t have stranger anxiety until he’s at ten months. He doesn’t need me.”

 

John shook his head and swallowed down the sudden anger that flared up in his gut. “Oh, I get it,” he said. “This is just you having a little pity-party, feeling sorry for yourself because you’re having adequacy issues. Well we’ll just have to-”

 

The mobile in Sherlock’s pocket chirped - how had _that_ survived? It must be cast-iron - and she ignored him in favor of answering. “Lestrade?” Her brow briefly furrowed. “We’re on our way.” She rung off and pierced John with her light eyes. “That was Scotland Yard. It’s about the explosion. Will you come?” She looked hesitant as she asked, mobile cradled awkwardly between thin hands in her lap. It was obvious that John was frustrated and still impatient with her after their spat the day before, and he felt guilty knowing that Sherlock could see it clearly written across his face.

 

“Yeah, of course I’ll come,” he agreed wearily. “They need a statement or something?”

 

She shook her head and straightened from her chair. “He wouldn’t tell me, but I get the feeling the explosion was. It was deliberate.”

 

They went together downstairs and hailed a cab, the new information hovering over them like a noxious cloud.

 

\---

 

Sherlock didn’t like feeling helpless, not even when it came to things that no one in the world could control like the rotation of the planet or tidal waves. But when things came to her son she wanted to be in control. She wanted to be able to tell people that they were doing things wrong, and how to be better, make them try, but she didn’t know anything about medicine. Her father had thought it would be a good fit with her affinity for chemistry, but she and the subject had never really clicked. It had made her sad to be unable to please her father, but that didn’t matter now that he was dead. What really mattered was her son, what he needed, and what Sherlock couldn’t give him. There were a lot of things she couldn’t give him.

 

The idea that the explosion may have been deliberate, not a terrorist attack but one against her, or someone in the vicinity who was also a threat worthy of revenge-bombing. The odds were against her, and against her son. With that thought she pressed a hand to her eyes in frustration. John gently tore her hand away and closed it between his own. Always John, always so special, trying to offer comfort in matters he didn’t know about. So present, so brave, so stupid for believing in someone like her. What was there to believe in a woman who couldn’t even protect her own child?

 

They strode their way into Scotland Yard, John looking as angry as she felt. His shoulders were rigid and brow furrowed, but his neck was stiff - he’d slept on a lie-low or sofa at his sister’s house. Not to mention the lines of tension that looked as though they’d set in overnight, so he and Harry had bickered. Probably about her.

 

The city's finest were assembled in their usual slapdash fashion among the cubicles and ringing phones that had haunted Sherlock in the earliest days of her burgeoning career. Anderson glared at her as they passed. She ignored him; he'd hated her since he tried to proposition her and she shot him down, which was no big deal to her. Donovan was in Lestrade's office with him, the pair of them poring over paperwork. They looked up when she and John barged in.

 

"Still hanging around the freak, then?" Donovan asked John, who brushed her off with a glance at Sherlock. Guilt. Stress. He was getting frustrated with their living arrangement. 

 

Sherlock looked away from him and focused on the envelope Lestrade presented her with. Stiff, thick paper with a distinct texture. "Bohemian." She used a pocket blade from her coat pocket to slit it open, a pink phone sliding out onto her palm. It was familiar, but not enough for her to have genuinely seen it before. The screen was smooth and unblemished, not even smudged by its handler. No scratches, no dents, no bumps, not even a bit of dirt on the case: impossible to deduce anything.

 

"Isn't that the phone from A Study in Pink?" Lestrade asked.

 

"No, just made to look like- wait, you read his blog?"

 

"We all do."

 

John smiled, pleased with himself, until Donovan spoke up. "Do you _really_ not know the earth goes round the sun?"

 

Something sharp and bitter roiled in her chest like heartburn as the DI and Donovan shared a grin, and John frowned pitiably. It was all too reminiscent of the schoolyard: the bully, the one who agreed but didn't want to get in trouble so just smiled, and the one who disagreed but was too afraid to say a word.

 

"It's irrelevant," she said before the phone chirped in her hand. One unheard message from [Number Blocked].

 

_Pip. Pip. Pip. Pip. Pip._  

 

A picture flashed onto the screen while she explained what the pips meant. "What happens when the pips run out?" asked John. She looked up at him with an eyebrow arched significantly. He nodded grimly. They couldn't let it go that far, whatever it was this bomber had planned for her. She turned back to the screen with the neat blue penmanship spelling her name blurring in the corner of her vision.

 

Single room, no furniture, dark, dank, probably mold-infested. Bare amounts of sunlight streaming in through windows - high in the wall, like in a basement. There were either no curtains or thin white ones; difficult to discern in a camera-phone quality picture. It had to be something familiar, something close to her, something intimate and personal-

 

She blinked and remembered. The sticky smell of mildew attacking her nose, making her sneeze as she held her swelling stomach in one hand and Mrs. Hudson tutted. It had been almost eight months since she'd looked at the flat with Mrs. Hudson, before they'd unanimously decided that Sherlock and the baby would be better off upstairs in 221B.

 

The return trip to Baker Street was taken in Lestrade's car to save both time and money. This, too, was a place Sherlock was uncomfortably familiar with after years of delinquency. Her head was hurting, from both the concussion and the apparent flood of sentimentality determined to crush her from all sides. Without asking John passed over a pair of aspirin, which she swallowed dry. Her hands were shaking.

 

Sherlock couldn't listen to Mrs. Hudson natter on about 221C as she unlocked it, brushing past her down the stairs. This had nearly been where she lived; she wouldn't have needed a flatmate, never would have met John, probably would have died. _Sentimental. Stop it_. He didn't know about her treacherous sentimentality, that she still had the frame of her first violin bow, that every year she visited her father's grave with a bottle of his favorite whiskey and poured it into the soil, that the depth of her feelings for him, for John, brave, stupid, loyal John, went unuttered only because it was deep enough to frighten her right down to the quick. Never did she want to be so intensely in love that it seemed her whole world stopped every time the other took a breath, to die for him, to throw everything away, to break her own back under the crushing weight of it. She would probably never let it be quite so deep, not give it the chance. Soon John would leave her, and that in itself was another good reason not to breathe a word. He would be better off, safer, if there were no attachments.

 

"Shoes," John murmured, staring into the room with her and Lestrade. It was just as she and the landlady had left it all those months ago, but for the shoes. Men's trainers, old, worn around the edges, but clean - pristine, in fact. Sherlock took a step nearer and he reminded her, "He's a bomber, remember."

 

Yes, she remembered. She remembered very clearly, the stink of hospital and Alex's crying still clinging to her skin. She had to be back in the morning to fetch him, must remember. To satisfy John she crouched low, stretching forward onto her stomach to inspect the shoes more closely, then stood when she couldn't find a sign of explosives in them. They were just ordinary shoes, made extraordinary by their presence in the flat accompanied by-

 

The pink mobile started ringing. Sherlock opened the speakers and answered, "Hello?"

 

"H-hello...sexy," a woman's voice sniffled. 

 

She frowned thoughtfully. The woman's words and cries didn't match up. "Why are you crying?"

 

"I'm n-not crying. I'm t-typing, and this s-stupid b-bitch is reading it out. I've sent you a little get-to-know-you present. Y-you have t-ten hours before I do s-something v-very naughty."

 

The phone switched off just as if an invisible hand had reached around Sherlock's to do it. She jumped slightly, grip tightening, feeling the unspoken presence in the room. The black cloud was drawing nearer. Moriarty.

 

"This is it," she murmured aloud.

 

"What?"

 

"I've been expecting something like this to happen," she explained, still not turning to face John or Lestrade. She had been expecting it since the cabbie told her she had a fan. There was always a fine line between the two types of fans - "My bedroom is this way," and "They'll never find the bodies” - and what they were willing to do to garner attention or praise.

 

Tucking the phone into her pocket, Sherlock rowed with Lestrade - this was a hostage situation, and if the bomber wanted her to keep the shoes and figure it out herself, then the police taking them would only get the woman killed - until he agreed with her and let her keep the shoes. Even as concern for her son hovered and itched at the forefront of her mind, the remaining gears were beginning to turn.


	4. Chapter 4

Six hours had gone by when Molly and her new friend entered the morgue. Sherlock glanced up at this Jim whoever - really, Molly could do so much better if she just got a bit of confidence - and within seconds everything she needed to know was right there in front of her. “Cheater.”

 

“Sorry?” Molly squeaked.

 

She felt John stiffen behind her. Right. Back-pedal. “Uh. Nothing. Hey there,” she corrected herself. “Something I can help you with? I’m on a timer.”

 

“Are you?” asked Jim, coming nearer to look over her shoulder at the microscope. “You’re on a case right now? Wow, that’s so cool. Molly’s told me all about you, you kno-oh!” He accidentally toppled over a dish at her side and dove down to get it, slipping a piece of paper under it before he replaced it. No one had the time to write out a number that quickly; Jim had been planning this since he met Molly, probably. Bastard. “Anyway, I ought to head out. It was nice to meet you.”

 

Sherlock continued staring into her microscope, not bothering with giving the idiot the time of day, until John said goodbye for her.

 

Once the door swung shut, Molly squeaked, “What did you mean, ‘cheater’? Jim’s not cheating on me.” The hesitant “right?” went unsaid, but still noticed. Molly laughed anxiously and twiddled her hands in front of her. The girl needed a boost, but Sherlock didn’t have time for that. She would just have to be honest and kind.

 

“He only started seeing you to get to me,” she explained. “Though his posture was slumped as he came in, the moment I looked at him he straightened. His pupils dilated, and if I’d been nearer I would have felt his pulse elevate; he was excited by seeing me. His voice lowered an octave and he shows recent signs of very good grooming, more recent than since you started dating, probably around the time you mentioned introducing us. He fixed himself up in anticipation, cut his hair, dyed it darker, new shirt and shoes. Not to mention he left his phone number under this dish for me, so I’d break things off now and save yourself the pain when he eventually leaves you to pursue me, even though I’m obviously ta-” John shifted again behind her, “-not interested.”

 

Molly looked quietly devastated, then shifted to anger, shouted something unintelligible at her, and dashed out after her boyfriend. Sherlock was perplexed but unsurprised. Most people reacted to her attempts to help with anger.

 

Nodding to himself, John muttered, “Good work, spot on,” and sighed.

 

“I was only being honest with her; isn’t that kinder?”

 

“No, Sherlock, _that_ wasn’t kind.”

 

Irritation warred with feelings of incompetency, and Sherlock looked down at the shoes on the table before her. The least anyone could do was tell her how to do it correctly, if they were going to tell her off for trying. instead of replying, she pushed the shoes down the tabletop at John. “Will you take a look? I need a second opinion.”

 

John was instantly suspicious of her. “I’m not going to let you treat me like an idiot,” he seethed. He was angry with her, temper shorter than usual from lack of sleep and her own emotional distance. Placing herself in the shoes of an average person, she thought she might understand, but it made her head hurt to try for longer than a few moments. Sherlock would never be anyone but herself, and he would have to understand that if he were ever to stay. But then again, he wasn’t staying.

 

“Please, John, outside opinions are invaluable to me,” her mouth said regardless.

 

With another disparaging look, John took up one of the trainers. He tried, really he tried, and to see him do so made her want to smile. Even if everything he guessed at was wrong, she still wanted him to be encouraged and happy. They talked it out for several more minutes, the itch in Sherlock’s head grew bigger and tighter until she actually had to hold her head between both hands. John offered her more aspirin but she didn’t answer, feeling something coming too close to be real but too distant to be clear, and it hurt, clawing at the edges of her consciousness until it finally melded and pulled itself into a clear picture. A pair of abandoned shoes, eczema, the nineties, an unsolved case...

 

Sherlock picked her head up and stared into her own past. “Carl Powers.”

 

\---

 

“Carl Powers was a boy from Sussex who died in 1993. He didn’t go to my school, but we lived in the same area. I never met him. He was a champion swimmer at his school, was always going to London for competitions and things like that. I was just 12 when he died, and it just didn’t make sense to me. Carl had had no pre-existing medical conditions - he’d had a fit in the water, you see. The police were baffled but didn’t have any proof of his death being instigated by a second party, so let it die. I tried to kick up a fuss, but no one would listen to me.”

 

“But how did you know?” John asked as the cab rolled over a bump in the road.

 

She flickered her eyes over to him, not having really noticed she’d been talking aloud. “His shoes had been missing. Look at them, really look, Carl loved his shoes and wouldn’t have lost them. Why would he not have shoes in his locker? Whoever killed him kept the shoes as a memento, took care of them all these years, and then planted them for _me._ ” And now he - at least, statistically, it was a _he_ ; most serial killers were - was after her and had nearly killed her son.

 

Back in the remains of Baker Street Sherlock set up her equipment at the kitchen table and started examining the trainers. There had to be something there, something she was missing.

 

_Five Hours Left_

 

“So what about the woman?” asked John, leaning against the table beside her.

 

Blinking rapidly to get the bright light out of her eyes, Sherlock looked irritably up. “She’s just a hostage.”

 

“ _Just_ a hostage?”

 

They stared one another down before she let out a huffy sigh and turned back to her work.

 

_Three Hours Left_

 

“Sherlock, the hospital called and said Alex is ready for discharge,” John said, putting Sherlock’s mobile back on the table beside her elbow. “Do you want me to go and get him?”

 

Dragging her eyes out of the microscope lenses took herculean effort, and she rubbed at them to keep from going cross-eyed. “Wrong. They said he wouldn’t be ready until morning.”

 

“Well, they changed their minds. Do you want me to get him or not?” He gently took her hands and peeled them away from her eyes. “How’s the headache?” She shook her head and he fetched more aspirin from the bathroom. “Here, take these.” Sherlock bit down on the aspirin, latching onto the bitter taste to keep herself grounded. John grimaced on her behalf and gently patted the back of her head. “Alright, I’m going to go get him, then. I’ll have to call Mycroft to do the paperwork, though, or is someone else Alex’s secondary guardian?”

 

Without thinking, Sherlock replied, “No, you-” then froze. Wrong. “Ah. Lestrade’s his legal guardian in the event of my death, but I never actually told him that. Have him go with you and tell them I’m indisposed.”

 

"You know, this is _your_ son we're talking about."

 

"My son who is, according to medical professionals, fine," Sherlock snapped. "We're also talking about a mad bomber who could blow up a great many number of things if left unattended. I can only stretch myself so far, John."

 

He sighed wearily; his limbs all dragged down toward the ground. Soon his leg would be aching and if she kept him at it he would be back on the cane by the end of the week. "You're right. I'm sorry. You just never ask for help, you know. It's hard to help you when you never ask."

 

Sherlock knew that. She just didn't know how to show her own deplorable vulnerabilities, after years of violence taught her that vulnerability was equal to soft-mindedness. Only idiots asked for help; genius transcended weakness.

 

John left without another word, dialing Lestrade on his mobile as he went, and half an hour later the pieces fell together. Sherlock scrabbled for the nearest laptop and logged onto her website.

 

_Found: pair of trainers laced with Botulinum toxin. Call at Baker Street to claim. SH_

 

Mere moments after she sent the message along, sitting still as a statue in anticipation for the confirmation text in the mobile, Sherlock's frazzled nerves were set alight by the door opening downstairs. Surely they hadn't...?

 

A baby's petulant cooing broke through the tension and Sherlock nearly toppled over. The itching, grating, fraying at the edges of her mind vanished as what most people described as their only headache was returned to her. Sherlock met John and Lestrade at the door and pulled Alex into her arms. He was heavy, hot, squirming in her grasp, and she was so crushed by her own relief that for a moment she couldn’t speak. Her son was fine. A bit dazed and in need of careful watching, according to John, but fine nevertheless.

 

“How often do I need to check him in his sleep?” she asked, giving the Moses basket a resentful kick in favor of putting Alex in the infinitely sturdier crib. She dragged it out into the main room of the flat to keep a close eye on her son while she waited for the next case. While Alex made himself comfortable she explained how she’d solved the case, how wildly common botulinum toxin was nowadays and how nearly untraceable. “It was crafty, a powerful paralytic introduced to his system through his eczema medication. Whoever did this had to have been close to Carl.”

 

She half-remembered a handful of slumber parties she’d been invited to as a gangly child of twelve. Each of the three times she’d gone, in an attempt to sate her mother’s demands and help along her father’s hopes, had ended in some horrible prank that left Sherlock in varying states of undress locked out in the front garden. Her mother had despaired that she hadn’t tried hard enough. Her father told her he was sorry and that teenage girls were horrible to one another. Sherlock had struggled to understand why she’d been invited at all if only to humiliate her. The closeness, or at least the illusion of closeness, had only aided their crimes. Perhaps that was what the murderer had done as well. Sherlock didn’t share her theories with the others, knowing it would be counterproductive and a waste of time.

 

The pink phone started ringing at last. The woman was still crying - was it possible for people to cry for ten hours straight? “Good j-job you,” she hiccuped. “Come and get me.”

 

\---

 

The next morning has them dragged back to Scotland Yard to give their statements and get more possible information about the situation, Alex left with a begrudging Mrs. Hudson. She was still sore about the wall, which Sherlock could probably understand if she had more time to think about it, but the next clue was expected to come in at any time now. Despite John’s insistence that they take turns staying up to check on Alex, she hadn’t slept well the night before. Lestrade explained how the woman had been picked up, wired, and set up with a pager - people still used pagers? - to read off of.

 

Sherlock blinked in surprise. “Elegant,” she admitted. John looked affronted. The pink phone chimed again with a new message before he could complain about her choice in words.

 

_Pip. Pip. Pip. Pip._

 

“Only four.”

 

“First test passed,” Sherlock explained, looking down at the photograph of a car, “and here’s the second. Abandoned.”

 

Lestrade went to work looking for recent missing persons reports, and Sergeant Donovan let herself into the office with her phone. “Freak,” she said, holding it out, “it’s for you.”

 

Puzzlement and apprehension filled Sherlock as she took it. A young man’s shaking voice said, “It’s okay that you’ve gone to the police, but don’t rely on them. Clever you. Getting to the root of nasty Carl Powers. I never liked him. You wouldn’t have either. He laughed at me. So I stopped him laughing.”

 

“I assume you’ve stolen another voice.”

 

“This is all about you and me, my dear.”

 

There was a strange fuzzy noise in the background of the man’s speech, occasional whirring and sounds like electric shocks. “What’s that sound?”

 

“The sound of life.”

 

He was in the middle of a crowded square. How did no one notice? Unless the security in the area was corrupt or had been simultaneously threatened.

 

“But don’t worry,” the man continued, “I’ll soon fix that. You solved my last puzzle in nine hours. This time you have eight.”

 

John was behind Sherlock when she tossed the mobile back at Sally. “Who was that?” he asked as though he dearly didn’t want to know the answer.

 

She was getting tired of all the obvious questions. “Who do you think?” she retorted, just before Lestrade came barreling out of his office with news.

 

\---

 

Sherlock had never believed she was gifted in fake-crying. It had never worked on her mother and father, at least: Mother saw tears as a sign of her “illness” and Father was always able to see right through her to the real problem. However, when it came to Mrs. Monkford, the crocodile tears came so naturally and so honestly that John joked about picking her up a BAFTA on the way to Janus Cars. Then he had to explain what, exactly, a BAFTA was.

 

\---

 

_The Science of Deduction extends congratulations to Ian Monkford on his recent relocation to Colombia._

 

Sherlock hit ‘send’ and waited, heartbeat a thready hum in her ears.

 

\---

 

John made her sleep that night, keeping the pink phone close and sitting with Alex while she slumped across the bed, too exhausted to protest. Even as she fought sleep, she was powerless against the undertow. The headaches from her concussion were more infrequent than before, the throb almost creating a rocking sensation as she drifted. For what felt like hours she hovered between sleep and waking, listening to John shifting about as he sang Alex a lullaby. He was no concerto, but it was comforting to listen to, an assurance of his presence, and after a few sparks of nightmare dashed across the edges of her eyes she fell fully asleep.

 

Woken early by a black cloud with her mother's face and Moriarty's presence attacking her in her sleep, Sherlock took a short but scalding shower before wordlessly wrapping both arms as tightly around John as she could. She'd woken up afraid for him and couldn't shake it. It was probably the concussion paired with his impending departure from her life.

 

"Hey," said John softly, pulling carefully from her grip and touching her cheek. "It's okay, Sherlock. I'm not going anywhere." She hadn't been aware of speaking aloud. "Bad dream?"

 

"No," she dismissed, reaching into the fridge for one of Alex's bottles and starting it heating. "You ought to sleep if you were up with him half the night."

 

He shook his head, leaning against the kitchen table with one hand and looking haggard. "'m fine," he muttered, though be seemed the opposite. Face pale, dark circles under his eyes, faint sheen of sweat and skin oils on his forehead, hands trembling, lines deeper set in his face: John was exhausted and worried and on the verge of getting ill. Panic swelled in Sherlock's chest. Without another word she went downstairs to 221A and knocked until Mrs. Hudson answered.

 

“Sherlock, dear, I can’t watch the baby today, I’m going to see my niece,” the landlady admonished immediately.

 

She bit her lower lip and tried to make herself look as desperate as possible. “But John’s getting ill, Mrs. Hudson, and I can’t look after him, Alex, and these cases at the same time! Can’t you just take him with you? Please?” At the old woman’s continued stern look she carried on with, “I took you out on Mothering Sunday!”

 

“As payment for the _last_ time I babysat.”

 

Floundering for purchase, Sherlock scratched the side of her nose and widened her eyes to give herself a more innocent look. “Mrs. Hudson, I _swear_ to you I’ll get a proper babysitter as soon as this case is over. If you could just please, _please_ do me this one last favor and take Alex with you to see your niece, maybe even stay overnight at a hotel until things calm down - I’ll pay - then I will never, _ever_ ask you to babysit again.” She even clasped her hands pleadingly in front of her for effect.

 

Mrs. Hudson thought on it for a long moment before finally nodding. “Yes, alright, I’ll watch him. But this is the last time, Sherlock Holmes! I mean it, never again unless you’re on death’s door! I’m your landlady, not your babysitter!” Sherlock thanked her all the way back up the stairs to 221B, brought Alex and his necessary things down to 221A, and pulled John out for breakfast at a cafe. If she knew how to cook more than burnt toast she would have done.

 

“Are you feeling better?” she asked once John had had something to eat.

 

Closing his eyes and nodding earnestly, John put down his fork. “Just feels like we’ve hardly paused for breath since this all started, you know? Must be feeling my age.” He smiled sardonically at that. “Though you ought to eat too. Why did you leave Alex with Mrs. Hudson?”

 

Discomfort prickled in the back of her neck. She hadn’t felt hungry since the explosion, wound up too tightly to notice. “I need as few distractions as possible to finish this, so thought getting rid of Mrs. Hudson’s nagging and Alex’s crying by sending them off together would kill two birds with one stone,” she explained. To appease him before he got irritable she stole a bit of toast from his plate. Anxiety was still ripping through her, but now that Alex and Mrs. Hudson were safely out of the way she was beginning to feel a burgeoning interest in the case and bomber.

 

The phone buzzed and John froze warily, petrified by the sound. Any rising appreciation for the bomber vanished there at the sight of her army doctor stiff with worry. She unlocked the phone to receive the message.

 

_Pip. Pip. Pip._

 

So they’d passed. Sherlock felt a thrill of triumph before a photograph of a woman’s face appeared on the screen. There was nothing extraordinary about her - she was a bit doughy-looking around the edges where she hadn’t had plastic surgery, wearing too much makeup in a fashionable way that so many teenagers fancied. This woman was no teenager, of course, but was in denial, and...none of that was helpful.

 

“This could be anyone,” she fumed quietly, showing John the picture. His eyebrows rose comically and a triumphant smile bloomed over his lined face. “What?”

 

“Lucky for you, I’ve been more than a bit unemployed,” he explained. “While you were recovering from your surgery I’d keep from waking you by taking Alex down to Mrs. Hudson’s and we’d watch crap telly together.” He got up and changed channel on the small telly in the corner of the cafe to the news. “Also lucky for you, I’ve known every news network in Britain since I was twelve.” As he returned to his seat the woman’s face - Connie Prince - appeared, the newscasters announcing her death by tetanus. The moment the report finished, the very moment, the phone was ringing and Sherlock snatched it.

 

“ _This one’s...a funny one_.”

 

An iron claw closed around Sherlock’s chest; for a moment the old woman had sounded like Mrs. Hudson, but that was impossible. Mrs. Hudson was going to her niece’s this afternoon and staying at a nice hotel with  the baby until this whole affair was done with.

 

“ _She’s...blind. Defective. You...have twelve...hours_ ,” the old woman cried.

 

Sherlock shoved the woman’s voice aside, storing it away in a room of her Mind Palace to be deleted later, and forced a gender- and region-neutral voice to the words instead. “Why don’t you speak to me yourself? Why are you doing this?” she demanded.

 

The voice deliberated its answer. “ _I like...to watch you...dance._ ”

 

Listening to the old woman sobbing, Sherlock bit down on her tongue to keep from saying anything else and hung up the phone. She repeated, “Twelve hours,” to John, and turned back to the television.

 

_ 4 Hours Left _

 

“ _His voice.._.”

 

“Stop.”

 

“ _It...was so_...”

 

“I said stop! Don’t describe him!”

 

“ _...soft-_ ”

 

There was a sound like a whip cracking the air before the call was cut off. Sherlock fought not to shout in frustration as she vainly barked into the phone regardless. Of course there was no answer. Her face felt slack and numb as she switched the phone off. John’s hand was on the back of her chair, heat radiating softly into her back.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for severe child endangerment in this chapter. I mean it. Really, really bad.

“A whole block of flats,” said John mournfully as they watched the news report the next morning.

 

Sherlock snapped out of her thoughts so quickly she got whiplash, breaking free of the useless gutter of information whirring through her head. _Bohemian stationary woman’s handwriting blue ink felt-tip pen no indents from a ball my name explosion my son no one knows him leak in the police force leak in my brother’s office leak in the pipes pay rent tomorrow Mrs. Hudson’s safe Alex is safe stop thinking about them old woman trying to help trying to describe him blown to bits whole block of flats missing man abandoned car Colombia escape insurance fraud two counts if you count the Botox disaster eighteen year old cold case shoes old shoes abandoned in a pool locker abandoned in 221B Did I Just Give You the Good Pill or the Bad Pill insurance fraud again in a sense more like hospice assassination sore wealthy bomber neurosurgeon heart surgeon professor gangster--_

 

Coming out of it was like the first clear breath after nearly drowning. There were so many threads shooting out in so many directions, it was no wonder the bomber was enjoying himself; like it or not, Sherlock was dancing to cover all the bases. The image of an enormous spider, sitting fat and opulent in the center of his web, knowing every twitch and hum of the silk, danced across her crackling mind. He wasn’t winning. She was still one-up on him.

 

“Technically, I did win that round,” she growled and shut off the telly with a jab against the remote. “She started describing him; even with the minimal information the bomber was threatened and exposed.”

 

John shook his head. “Why would anyone do something so horrible?” he asked faintly.

 

She didn’t know, and so shrugged and said the first thing to come to mind. “I can’t be the only person who gets bored.” That would bring John’s mind back to her destructive tendencies of the other night and perhaps he could help her shed some light on the situation.

 

instead he barked a shocked, bitter laugh. “Oh, I’m sure you two will be very happy together,” he muttered darkly before getting up and stalking to the kitchen. His back was rigid and tense. Realization dawned.

 

“You’re angry.”

 

“Brilliant deduction, yeah,” he sneered, turning in the door.

 

“Why? I’m just offering an opinion in the matter,” she explained, feeling the tension rising more by the second. “Psychopaths get bored after all, don’t they?”

 

She saw the blood drain from his face, as though he were having some sort of epiphany of his own, and he shouted, “ _There are lives at stake, Sherlock! Actual, human, lives!_ Just-just so we’re clear, do you care about that at all?” he demanded.

 

“Will caring about them help save them?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Then I’ll continue not to make that mistake,” she snapped. “This bomber is waiting for me to make a mistake, and if I spread myself any thinner I _will_ slip up, and he _will_ win.”

 

Running a hand wearily over his face, John leaned against the back of his chair. “It’s not about winning; it’s about helping people,” he softly said.

 

Sherlock fought not to leap out of her chair and shake him. Couldn’t he see that she cared? She cared so much more than anyone would ever know. Instead she mustered herself and said, “ _Don’t_ make people into heroes, John. Heroes don’t exist, and if they did I wouldn’t be one of them.”

 

His shoulders slumped, head dropping to bow low, and Sherlock realized her mistake a moment too late. John was a war hero. She’d found five medals for valor and heroism in his bedroom closet, buried deep under the rigamarole of his past. That was when she finally stood up. “John, I have far too much to lose to start caring about the victims,” she explained sharply. “The moment I invest anything other than professional interest into these cases, everything I _do_ care about will be attacked. That means my son, my brother, my friend, my landlady, my-...you, John. He will take _everything_. If I rearrange my priorities, stop treating the hostages like the pawns they’re meant to be, _this_ stops being a game and becomes guerrilla warfare.”

 

John opened his mouth as if to protest and she cut him off. “Let me show you where my priorities _do_ lie in a way you might understand,” she sarcastically offered. Sherlock held out her hand, flat and level with the top of her ear. “ _This_ is my work. _This_ -” she raised her hand as far as she could while keeping it flat, “-is my son. And-”

 

“Oh, lay off!” John shouted. “I _know_ where your precious priorities lie, Sherlock, you’ve told me a hundred times!”

 

“ _No I haven’t; you never let me finish!”_ she shrieked back at him, voice cracking and breaking in her anger, hands clenched tightly at her sides. John took a half-step away from her, blinking bemusedly and something like fear in his eyes, and Sherlock was filled suddenly with uncontrollable anger and horror. In that moment she gave in to everything her mother had tried to smother in her formative years: the pain, the anger, the screaming in her mind that grated and scratched away at her insides until she wanted to peel the paper from the walls, break glass, and dig the shards into her eyes until the noise stopped. She sank back into her chair, hands shaking in her lap, and before John could say a word the pink phone chirped with a new message.

 

_Pip. Pip._

 

\---

 

An enormous hand closed over her mouth and nose as the music in the planetarium rose to a roar that ripped through her head like lightning. The lights blinded her and the Golem laughed, dark and husky, in her ear. She strained with as much of her strength as she could muster to pull free, but even with one hand he was so much stronger.

 

“Let her go!” John shouted above the din. “Let her go, or I _will_ kill you.” His gun was aimed at the Golem, but the enormous man knelt down until he was hidden behind her body and John would have to try shooting around her. He would never do that. White sparks flew up in her eyes to dance among the stars on the walls, pain swept through her chest and neck as her body struggled to suck in just one breath, to hold her just a bit longer...

 

She was released in favor of knocking the gun out of John’s hand and throttling him in her place. Still gasping, she scrambled to catch the fallen gun before it slid farther away from where she could reach in her sprawled state. The angle at which the Golem knocked John out almost looked like he’d snapped the doctor’s neck; Sherlock dragged herself to his side, blindly aiming the gun to shoot at the giant, but was too uncoordinated with the deafening music and flashing lights to hit her mark. The door slammed shut, and she slammed her fist into the floor. “John,” she croaked, giving him a little shake.

 

With a gasp that had him arching right off the floor, John’s eyes flew open - he’d just been winded, thank God - and Sherlock sagged onto his heaving chest with relief. They’d barely spoken since their row, other than him telling her and Lestrade off for bickering over a corpse. If he had died, she. Well. It wouldn’t have been good.

 

“You okay?” John asked, bringing up a hand to touch one of the enormous fingerprints on her face. 

 

She nodded, the side of her face scratching against the wool of his jumper. Already she could see purplish marks from the Golem’s fingers rising up on his face and neck. “Alright?” she replied, and he nodded. After a few more minutes catching their breath they helped one another up and made their way up to the gallery. Without a word or glance Sherlock reached across the space between them and squeezed John’s hand, not letting go until they were within range of being seen by Lestrade or Miss Wenceslas.

 

They all sequestered around the so-called “Lost Vermeer” with minds whirring. The bomber hadn’t yet called through his new hostage, but that didn’t put Sherlock at ease. If she figured it out now then it would save time later. Putting herself within inches of the faked landscape, Sherlock ignored Wenceslas’ indignant sniffing to examine it. Sherlock wasn’t an art expert, she didn’t know how to identify a faked painting, but the bomber had to know that, so it had to be something _in_ the painting that was wrong. The only problem was that she didn’t know the landscape, either.

 

When the phone started ringing she had the speakers opened within the first ring, jumpy and impatient for this to be over with now that John had been hurt. “It’s a fake,” she spat into the phone. “The Vermeer’s a fake! I figured it out!” Her voice rose and nearly cracked again, and she had to take a deep breath and close her eyes to get control of herself. Heartbeat slowing, she spoke into the dead air again. “Fine, just give me time, alright? Will you give me time?”

 

Dead silence, then a voice so familiar Sherlock wanted to be ill started singing, “ _R-rock...a-bye...ba-...by..._ ” through the open speakers of the phone. The world tipped to the side.

 

“Oh, god, Mrs. Hudson,” John whispered.

 

“ _...on...the tree-...”_

 

With a hand over his mouth Lestrade asked, “What’s he doing now?”

 

Sherlock didn’t tear her eyes away from the painting. “Giving me time,” she gasped through dry lips. She spun round to Wenceslas. “Tell me why it’s a fake! _Tell me why or this woman will die!_ ” Wenceslas helplessly shook her head and Sherlock brought both hands up to bang against her temples. “No! Stop! It’ll only work if I do it! If anyone else does they’ll go up!”

 

“ _...top.... When...the wind...blows...”_

 

“They?” asked Lestrade.

 

John answered for Sherlock. “Mrs. Hudson was looking after Alex.”

 

_Oh God no this isn’t happening this can’t be happening stop stop focus think brush strokes lighting geography shade tint tone-_

 

_“...the....cradle...will...rock...”_

_-color wheel balance canvas aging dust coagulation complementary colors composition contrast crazing cracking in the paint-_

 

_“...when...the...bough...breaks...the...”_

 

_-dry brushing tempra line shape form space point light motion direction fresco hue highlight NO STOP IT’S NOT ART IT’S SCIENCE THINK YOU IDIOT THINK thought you’d be flattered Sherlock Holmes sees through everything and everyone in seconds but what’s really amazing is how spectacularly ignorant she is about some things-_

 

_“...cradle...will...fall...”_

 

_-BUT IT’S THE SOLAR SYSTEM!_

 

_“...and down...will come...baby...”_

 

Practically throwing the pink phone into John’s chest Sherlock did a Google search of supernovae that exploded after the 1640s and _THERE!_

 

“ _...cradle...and...”_

 

Sherlock snatched the phone back and unrestrainedly shouted, “ _The Van Buren Supernova!_ ” into the mic.

 

There was dead air, and then Mrs. Hudson let out a sob. “ _Oh, Sherlock, what have you done?_ ” A baby started crying in the distance; Sherlock’s legs nearly gave beneath her, but she didn’t allow herself to give in to relief yet. They still had to get Mrs. Hudson and Alex back.

 

“Where are you?” she asked. “Don’t say a word about _him_ , just tell us where you are.”

 

She gave the address of a warehouse in Enfield, leaving Lestrade to track it down while Sherlock demanded a report on her and Alex's condition. Once Sherlock was certain that they were unharmed if not a bit hungry, the call was forcibly ended. She took three slow breaths, staring down at the blank screen until John touched her shoulder. Her vision grayed; when it came back the soldier's gun was in her hand with the barrel pressed into Wenceslas' jugular. Though her voice was echoing around the gallery, Sherlock had no recollection of what she said.

 

"Moriarty!" Wenceslas whispered. Tears slipped down her cheeks. "His name is Moriarty. Please don’t kill me."

 

John's hand slowly wrapped around hers, switching on the gun's safety before trying to make her move. "Come on, Sherlock," he urged her. "Let's go get Allie and Mrs. Hudson. It's okay. It's okay." He tucked the weapon into his belt just before Lestrade came back from where he'd gone to call for a location on the warehouse.

 

"Alright," announced the DI, "we've got cars en route. We'll take mine down; let's hope the traffic's light."

 

\---

 

The lot surrounding the warehouse had already been cordoned off when they leapt out of the car, Sergeant Donovan trying to hold off a few curious bystanders. Her eyes were very wide. "You can't go in," she said when Sherlock tried to push the barriers out of the way. "You need to wait until the bomb squad's cleared the area."

 

Sherlock clawed one hand in Donovan's coat and dragged her across the barrier. Several gaping bystanders pulled out their camera phones. "My son is in there," she said in a voice softer than she had anticipated. The hand holding Donovan's coat was trembling.

 

"I'm sorry," Sally said instantly, actually looking like she meant it. “I can’t let you through until I know it’s safe.” This close, Sherlock could see that she was pale and shaking, genuinely worried; though whether that worry was for Sherlock or just for the baby was inconclusive. Aside from that, Sherlock didn’t care. Nothing mattered, would ever matter until her son was back where he belonged.

 

Donovan’s radio crackled on her shoulder. “ _Sergeant, I-”_

 

With an enormous sound like the earth cracking open and a concussive force to send them all flying, the warehouse went up in flames. In a single moment time slowed, distorted into some obscure mockery of reality, and, with the skies on fire and ground rushing up to meet them, stopped. The world ended with a bang. 

 

In the aftermath, all physical sensation vanished other than the rough slide of Donovan’s jacket against her palm, uneven pavement in her back, agony ripping through her chest like a heart attack. The breath was knocked out of Sherlock’s lungs, her ears rang, and for several moments white stars obscured her vision. Then reality came rushing back like a riptide - _Alex was in there._ No other thought entered her mind, no other notions entertained other than the desperate need to find him; all else was silent.

 

Sherlock pushed herself to her feet and shoved past the fallen barriers, staggering over other fallen onlookers, sprinting on watery legs toward the burning warehouse that was rapidly collapsing in on itself, mind blank but for the rushing of blood through her ears.

 

A pair of arms snaked around her, or tried; within moments and a wild flail of her arms she’d fought them off. Only steps away they caught her again, crushing her, keeping her from her son, keeping her from doing what was right. Somewhere far off Sherlock could hear a woman sobbing as she dragged her fingernails through the flesh of the arms holding her back, trying to break their suffocating hold.

 

“ _Sherlock!_ ” John shouted. He sounded far off too, but it was his arms around her and his voice reverberating in her bones, her chest, her everything. It didn’t matter, none of it mattered, because Sherlock had made a promise that if anything happened to her son it would happen to her too. If he burned, she would burn with him. Throwing her weight forward like she would against a locked steel door, Sherlock knocked John’s grip loose and flew forward again, toward her son, toward the flames, for even if she knew he couldn’t be saved she knew she would have to try. _He can’t go alone, he’s too little._

 

Not even halfway across the lot of the warehouse she was caught again with a strangled cry of, “ _No, Sherlock, don’t-!_ ” Her body thrashed against John’s hold, and would have broken free a third time if not for the four other pairs of hands that joined him moments later. The far away sobbing woman started screaming as Sherlock fought them, clawing at the faces that tried to block her from her child, and still they held her back - couldn’t they see that her son needed her?

 

The stronger hands dragged her back, away from the building, and forced her down to sit on the pavement with her arms pinned to her sides. John knelt in front of her and deliberately blocked her view of the warehouse burning. He was pale and terrified. Though his mouth was moving, Sherlock couldn’t hear a word over the woman’s screaming. She wanted to tell her to shut up, but couldn’t use her own voice. It was painful to breathe in and every breath out was - oh. As soon as it registered that _Sherlock_ was the one screaming, it broke off and died away with a whimper. A shock blanket was wrapped around her shoulders by an EMT. For once she agreed that she might need be in shock, and pulled it tighter.

 

“Sherlock?” asked John timidly. “Back with us?” He didn’t touch her - probably didn’t dare - until she nodded. Then he cupped her cheek in one palm. His eyes were hard and sad. Somewhere nearby, Donovan was shouting at bystanders to back up and go home, that there was nothing here to see. The building yawned and groaned as the beams continued to settle on top of one another. Sherlock shuddered, and John leaned closer. “The EMTs want to take you in, make sure you don’t have a concussion.”

 

“I don’t have a concussion.”

 

“Yeah? Then who’s-?”

 

“David Cameron. The crown prince’s name is Charles, though most people seem to have forgotten about him now that William’s engaged. Forty-two times six-hundred and sixty-six is twenty-seven thousand, nine hundred and seventy-two. My birthday is the sixth of January. The earth...” Her throat constricted and eyes blurred, stinging hotly. “The earth goes round the - the sun. The Van...Van Buren supernova appeared...inthesky...the 1858...” The iron claw closed once more around her chest, every breath tearing its way through the delicate inner tissue and making her fight for air.

 

“Take it easy, Sherlock,” John pleaded, putting a hand on her back and gesturing at someone behind her. “Can you take a deep breath and hold it?”

 

Sherlock tried but couldn’t, each breath the pulled in shooting out again before she could get any oxygen. Though she had stopped audibly screaming her mind had not stilled - the inside of her head was a deafening cacophony of noise. Death rattles, battle cries, plaintive shrieks of misery, moans, the screech of demonic claws on a blackboard, white noise, the hum of fluorescent lights, all scratching, tearing, gnawing at the rapidly-fraying edges of her consciousness until it felt like she had to hold her head between her hands to keep herself together.

 

As if from nowhere like some posh avenging angel, Mycroft appeared and knelt on the gravel in front of her. Like when she was small and having a meltdown he closed both of her smaller hands in one of his to keep her from hitting and then put his other hand on top of her head so she couldn’t bite. He looked at John. “What happened?”

 

John quietly explained - as though Sherlock might forget if she didn’t hear - that Alex and Mrs. Hudson had been in the building before it went up.

 

Her brother’s expression slackened with shock for only a moment before he turned back to her. “Look at me, Sherlock. Come on, eyes front,” he prompted softly. She turned her eyes on him, latching onto the familiar routine, still trying to breathe but too distracted and set squirming by all of the hands touching her like dead weeds. “Doctor Watson, if you would be so kind as to remove your hand. Now tell me, Sherlock.”

 

Restricted and focused on her brother’s even stare, she began to calm down as words burst forth from her mouth. “Alex is dead. He’s dead and it’s too much. The darkness in my eyelids is too bright, I can’t handle it. If losing Father and Grand-mere was painful, then this is dying without the relief. My chest hurts, I feel like I’m having another heart attack. I can’t think, I can’t breathe, there’s so much noise in my head and my heart and the world keeps moving wrong and it _hurts_ make it stop make it _less_ Mycroft please help me-”

 

Mycroft’s hand moved to the side of her head, cradling instead of controlling, and he nodded to someone behind her - presumably John. Sherlock felt the prickling pinch of a needle in her upper arm and the world swam out of focus into blackness. The noise in her head fell silent.

 

\---

 

John handed off the syringe to Anthea, guilt a hard mass in his chest as he watched Sherlock blink around dazedly, looking betrayed. Mycroft deftly caught her when she sagged forward and picked her up as easily as a doll wrapped in an orange tea towel. They silently packed her up in Mycroft’s nondescript black car and set off for Baker Street, shaking off the EMTs, her head heavy in John’s lap. It was only a light sedative to quell her panic and help her sleep off the shock.

 

Her reaction to the explosion was not an inappropriate one - John had seen any number of mothers react much more violently over much less - but to see this woman who had seemed so in control and rational when they had met descend into an animalistic frenzy of the likes he’d never seen before had been terrifying. Three of the four police officers helping him restrain Sherlock had come out of it with bloody lips or long scratches tearing across their faces. John still loved her so strongly it alarmed him, but as each day passed the true colors of Sherlock’s outer strength and inner frailty became that much more vivid. There were so many things she hid from him, and even more that she hid from the rest of the world.

 

After more than a decade of military service, John reflexively knew how to act instead of react in an explosion, but also knew too well the trauma of civilian carnage, almost to an extent that he could push it away into some dark corner of his mind and hide from the stark reality. Every soldier had had to learn to do that very quickly or they wouldn’t have survived their first tour. So John did not let himself think about Mrs. Hudson or Alex, because if he thought too hard, if he pulled and prodded at that raw spot in his head, he wasn’t sure what would come out with it.

 

When they’d brought Sherlock inside and put her to bed, John and Mycroft adjourned in the sitting room to talk. He didn’t know the elder Holmes very well, but knew that he was very attached to his sister and fond of his nephew, and could see signs of strain on the fringes of his icy personality even then. Even his most neutral expression held a hint of a frown at the corners now. “I don’t think it requires saying that you must stay with her, John,” he said, delicately folding his hands round the handle of his umbrella. His face was pale.

 

“I know. I will. Of course I will.”

 

They both nodded solemnly to themselves.

 

“I’m sorry we didn’t get the missile plans back,” John added after a moment.

 

Mycroft made a surprised noise that could have in another life been a laugh. “I hardly think it matters now, John. I have to go. Stay with her. Please.”

 

“You know I will.”

 

Smiling grimly, Mycroft showed himself out of 221B. John leaned forward onto his knees and sighed heavily. He was beginning to think about Alex and Mrs. Hudson. There was a faint chirping sound from Sherlock’s bedroom that made him jump and grimace. The pink phone. It wasn’t just chirping, though; it was _ringing._ John leaped from his chair and snuck into the room to fetch it before Sherlock was woken by the noise.

 

The number on the screen was, of course, blocked, but such a rage swelled in John that he had to restrain himself from just throwing the mobile right out the window. Instead he unlocked it and growled, “ _What more could you possibly do to her?_ ” 

 

His response was the sound of Mrs. Hudson crying.

 

“ _Oh, I got you good, didn’t I? You can come and get me now._ ”


	6. Chapter 6

“We’ve got her.”

 

“Was she okay?”

 

“Well, physically, she was fine.”

 

“Physically?”

 

“She’s 74 years old, John. It seemed like she had been drugged, you know? Really confused, mixing up her words and mumbling to herself. Kept going on about a memory stick or something.”

 

“A memory stick,” John echoed faintly. “Bloody _fuck_.”

 

“What?”

 

“Sherlock’s brother had us looking for a lost memory stick that had some, ah, sensitive information on it. I think Moriarty might have been arranging all of this - the bombs, I mean - to get us to stop looking for them.”

 

Before Lestrade could reply Sherlock’s bedroom door opened and she drifted out, looking small and hard and lost as she made a beeline for the kitchen. It was obvious that she had heard them, but Lestrade clammed up. “Sherlock, how are you?” he instead asked.

 

Sherlock didn’t look at them or change her route to the kettle. “Fucking fantastic, I feel like singing. How are _you?_ ” she shot back at him. A mug fell from the cupboard onto the countertop, and when it didn’t break Sherlock smashed it against the wall. John hurried in and ushered her away from the mess, scooping up the shards in clumsy fingers. He was nervous. He didn’t know how Sherlock was going to react to the news that Mrs. Hudson was alive and well and her son was still missing.

 

When he got back to the sitting room Sherlock was on the sofa with her head in her hands, Lestrade’s arm slung tightly over her shoulders. The breath constricted in John’s throat as the full force of what had really happened hit him square in the jaw. Even if Alex was just as alive as Mrs. Hudson and the last bomb had been a decoy, he was still helpless in the hands of some very bad people who held quite a lot of power. They could do anything to him and not bat an eyelash. 

 

And if Alex wasn’t alive, well, there would be a lot of blood on John’s hands, not a drop of which he would regret. John sank down into the sofa cushions on Sherlock’s other side and rested a hand on her knee.

 

“I’m not gonna tell you it’ll be okay, because that would be a lie,” Lestrade murmured to her. “I just wish I could say or do _something_ that would help.”

 

Trying to be subtle about wiping her eyes, Sherlock raised her head and glared at them both before getting up and pulling on her coat. “I’m going to get the memory stick. If that’s what Moriarty was after, I may as well stop him ever acquiring it.”

 

“Sherlock, I don’t think-”

 

“ _Do you really think it’s a good idea to fight with me right now, John?_ ”

 

He took a startled step away from her raised voice. “All right. I’m sorry. Can I come with you?”

 

She made a great show of thinking about it before replying, “Fine.” Not waiting for John to put on his jacket, she swept out to hail a cab.

 

Lestrade gaped. John apologetically shook his head. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t get in trouble,” he promised before following her out.

 

\---

 

Westy’s would-be brother in law Joe’s first reaction on seeing John in his foyer was to try throwing his bike up the stairs and running. Then he saw the gun aimed in his face and thought better. His second reaction was to have a complete meltdown. Sherlock felt no sympathy - the opposite, really - as they forced him down onto the sofa like a troublesome child.

 

“I was down on my luck, up to my ears in debt, started selling drugs to pay them off,” Joe explained. “I mean, the bike riding thing was a good cover. But then, when we had Westy’s stag night...well...” He paused solemnly, clasping his hands between his knees.

 

Sherlock’s tenuous patience broke. How dare he think his lot so terrible because he owed a bit of money? How dare he foist upon her that he needed a moment to spare for the man he murdered ages ago? Did he see _Sherlock_ asking for a moment because of her son? In a matter of moments she pulled John’s gun from his waistband, yanked Joe’s head back by the hair roots, and lodged the barrel under his chin as she had to Wenceslas earlier. The only difference was that now she knew exactly what she was doing. “As thrilling as your tragic tale probably is, _I don’t give a fuck_ ,” she stated over Joe’s alarmed cry and John’s shout. “Someone looking for that memory stick killed my son this afternoon, so, without moving your head, I think it would be in everyone’s best interests to _tell me what you did with it_.”

 

“ _Sherlock!”_ John moaned in alarm as Joe hesitated and she pressed the barrel into his neck so hard he gagged. With a shaking hand and tears in his eyes, Joe pointed to an end table under the window. At her nod John retrieved the memory stick from the top draw. He held it out to her along with his free hand. “Come on, I’ll trade you for the gun.”

 

She could see the fear in his eyes, the doubt that she would control herself, and that alone made her want to pull the trigger and see Joe’s brain matter spread across the wallpaper. But shooting him wouldn’t bring her son back, alive or dead, and would very likely make John convinced of her instability. He would leave, and Mycroft would put her away. Sherlock didn’t want to be alone anymore. She flipped on the safety and returned the weapon to John’s waiting hand in exchange for pocketing the memory stick. They left Joe on the sofa without another word.

 

\----

 

Mycroft’s eyes widened at the sight of her and John in his office door, ushered in by Anthea. He stood up to invite them in, looking faint. “What are you-?” Sherlock held up the memory stick and his mouth fell open. “Oh, Sherlock...” As he rounded the desk to take it from her, she snatched it out of reach and turned to John.

 

“Give us a moment,” she told him. With a wary glance between her and her brother - encouraged by Mycroft’s nod - John slipped out.

 

She and Mycroft regarded one another silently for several moments, cataloguing what they saw.

 

“You’re going after him.”

 

“Of course I am, he took my son.”

 

“I understand.”

 

“I need a dummy memory stick to lure him out.”

 

“I’m sure there’s a spare around.”

 

Neither of them moved.

 

“You aren’t coming back, are you?”

 

“It’s not likely that I will, no.”

 

“Right.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Sherlock...I know that you loathe me, and find touch repulsive, but-”

 

“Sometimes restriction is comforting.”

 

They both knew what she meant. When she was a tiny child in the bathtub, and soap would get into her eyes, she would scream, and then the noise would echo in her ears and hurt her and suddenly it would feel like her whole body was pulling apart at the seams, not glued together properly. Daddy would pull her out of the tub and wrap her so tight in the big towel that she couldn’t move, couldn’t possibly pull apart like that, and would be calm within minutes. Mycroft picked up on it quickly, and would take anything within reach to wrap her in when things became too much. Sometimes just holding her hands together and head down would have to suffice, like at the explosion earlier, but one memorable time in his early teens he’d actually ripped the curtains from the window during a thunderstorm and squeezed her tight. Though she couldn’t be certain because the DI vehemently denied it any time she tried to ask, she suspected that Mycroft had passed a few hints onto him as they became closer.

 

Mycroft stepped forward then and embraced her, tucking his arms around her so tightly that her spine cracked and her troubled mind eased slightly. “Please try to come back.”

 

“I want you to help John, after I’m gone. Keep the rooms at Baker Street paid for, use my money, so he can stay. He and Mrs. Hudson will need each other. And maybe talk to Lestrade, see if he couldn’t take John on as a medical consultant, I’m sure he’d enjoy that, and - and. Make sure he knows that I did it to keep him safe. Because I don’t think this would stop until one or both of us were dead.”

 

“I will, Sherlock.”

 

She pulled carefully out of Mycroft’s grasp and found her arms reluctant to leave his. All feuding of the past years aside, he was her brother, her one source of safety and comfort after their father’s death and before John’s arrival. But all things must end, a lesson Sherlock knew far too well, and she traded off memory sticks with Mycroft without another word. The dummy hidden in a pocket in the lining of her coat, she left the office to usher John back to Baker Street.

 

In the cab, she reached across the seats and caught John’s hand. “Stay close to me.” If these were their last hours together, she wanted him near.

 

\---

 

They skipped eating for the time being and instead crashed into Sherlock’s bed, hands draped loosely over one another’s. Sherlock looked into John’s earnest, open face and felt her chest constrict painfully. She didn’t want to leave him. She didn’t want to die at all, but there was no way she could live another day without her son. John loved her. Sherlock rested her head on their joined hands.

 

“How are you feeling?” John whispered. “Right here, right now, how are you?”

 

“I feel like one of those people who jump out of aeroplanes for a living, like I’m supposed to know what I’m doing, but I’ve forgotten my parachute. I’m just drifting, falling, watching it all come closer and knowing that when it finally hits it’s going to be horrible, but there’s no way to avoid it or run away from it. Everything’s rushing by me and I want to close my eyes, but at the same time I want to see everything, because I don’t want to miss a single moment left.”

 

“You talk like you’re dying, Sherlock.”

 

“I _feel_ like I’m dying.”

 

John's hand spasmed around hers and tightened as he sucked in a ragged breath, closing his eyes. "Don't-" he stammered. "Please don't say that. I know what you're going through - I know it can't be easy. But just - it's selfish but - don't leave me. Don't leave me alone again. Not with these idiots taking up the thinking space," he begged.

 

A short burst of laughter and a sigh of John's name were surprised from her lips. Without her being aware tears welled and streamed from the corners of her eyes. After it started she couldn't stop, burying herself in John's ready embrace. Things had escalated steadily since her mother’s disastrous visit, and Sherlock knew that she couldn’t hide from feeling things any longer now that John had seen her in such a deplorable state. She gave the empty promise of “I’ll try,” and swallowed back the bile in her throat. John used his free hand to touch her cheeks before tilting her head and making her look at him. Her eyes weren’t the only ones wet.

 

“What was it like, when you were pregnant?” he asked softly. “Were you afraid?”

 

She nodded. “Yes. I was terrified. I didn’t want to have a baby, I didn’t even want to be alive. I thought my life was over anyway. I never thought I would be able to change myself to be a mother. I never wanted to change. I just wanted to hide. And now, now that he’s here, and real, or at least _was_...”

 

“I wish - _God_ , Sherlock, I wish I could have been there with you. I wish I could have helped you, made you less afraid, shown you that it wasn’t going to be so hard,” John breathed out between carefully-measured gasps.

 

Sherlock allowed herself to think about the idea of John being with her and how absurdly easy it would have been to actually happen. With one flick of the wrist Mycroft could have plucked an invalided army doctor off the street to watch over his sickly, pregnant sister while he was busy running the free world. Sherlock wouldn’t have liked him at first, would have shied away from his interest in the baby and his fussing over how she ate and slept, but after the first few days he would do something so _John_ that she wouldn’t be able to hide a smile. He would have slipped through the cracks into her life, a presence even more solid and regular than Lestrade’s. Maybe she even would have been healthy enough, happy enough, and smart enough to go straight to the hospital when she started having contractions five weeks early. Then maybe the hospital could have stopped them and Alex could have been born healthy.

 

Then again, it was foolish to dwell on things like that - why bother with regrets when one can’t go back? “You weren’t, though,” she told him.

 

Nodding sadly, John scooted nearer and pressed the crest of his forehead to hers. “I know. God, I know. I just wish,” he sighed. “We have to wait for the last pip to act, don’t we? So let’s not stay here, let’s - let’s go and see Mrs. Hudson at the hospital. Maybe she’ll be feeling better and can help us.” There was a keening in his voice, a desire to distract her from the pain slowly beating through her chest.

 

For a moment she almost agreed, wanting to be distant, wanting to get away, but then remembered the dummy memory stick in her jacket. Sherlock drooped her eyelids and intentionally roughed her voice up. “You ought to go and sit with her,” she agreed. “I think I’m too tired. I want to sleep a while.”

 

John looked wildly concerned - Sherlock rarely slept of her own volition, after all - and loosed his grip on her hand only enough to slowly stroke his fingers along the lengths of hers. “Do you feel ill?” he asked.

 

“I feel sad, John, and scared. Not sick. I’m just tired. I promise. I’ll sleep until you get back.”

 

The crease between his eyebrows was not convinced. “Maybe I should stay.”

 

“Mrs. Hudson hasn’t any family to be with her. She’s probably scared,” Sherlock insisted. “She likes you, thinks you’re sweet and funny. She’ll be happy to see you.” Sherlock bit the inside of her cheek as John agonized over his own thoughts for several minutes, obviously trying to discern whether she was at risk of going postal and killing herself while he was gone. “I promise I won’t slit my wrists. You can even take all the razors and knives with you if it’ll make you feel better.”

 

He went very quiet as he digested that thought.

 

“John, I just want to be alone, and if you’re here you’ll ask all sorts of questions about how I’m _feeling_ , which will only make me angry with you,” she insisted. “Please, just leave me be for a while. I’m alright.”

 

After another few minutes closely scrutinizing her face, John sighed and crawled out of the bed. “Okay. Think I’ll make a cuppa before I go; care for one?”

 

“No, thank you.”

 

While he made his tea Sherlock reached into his jacket hanging on the bedroom door hook, fished out the Browning, and shoved it between the sofa cushions before creeping back into bed undetected. She pretended to be asleep until John left, remaining in bed for five minutes in case he forgot something and came back for it, then pulled out her laptop.

 

_Found: the Bruce-Partington missile plans. Collect at the pool. Midnight._

 

She sat back and bided her time, trying to put a face to the man who hurt her son, if only to cherish the look of surprise splashed across it when she killed him.


	7. Chapter 7

The pool was silent and deserted when Sherlock arrived, though that wasn’t all that unusual for midnight. She kept one hand in her pocket, closed so tightly around the grip of John’s gun that it shook. Every nerve was alive and thrumming under her skin, finely tuned to every sound and ripple against the tile. She was ready. Whoever she was meeting was Moriarty, the man who took her son away. The man who would die the moment he exposed himself to her.

 

“I’ve brought you something,” she called into the empty pool. Even deserted it seemed to echo with the distant memories of children dashing about annoyingly screaming for their mums. “I know you’re here. I have a little getting-to-know-you present.” Turning to face the door from where she came, Sherlock pulled out the memory stick and held it aloft. “Come on, this is what you wanted, isn’t it? All your little puzzles, making me dance, stealing my son away. It was just to keep me away from _this._ ”

 

A changing stall door creaked open behind her and Sherlock spun round.

 

The world stopped.

 

“Evening,” said John briskly. His hands were tucked into the pockets of a rather hideous parka. “This is a turn-up, isn’t it, Sherlock?”

 

For several seconds all Sherlock could do was gape at John, unable to process the onslaught of information. “J-... _John, what the hell..._ ” The hand around the gun - John’s gun - spasmed and began to sweat. John was Moriarty. _John_ took Alex. _But it doesn’t make sense this is John he killed a man for me the day we met he loves Alex sings to him rocks him feeds him changes him cuddles him to sleep he’s a soldier with a strong moral code he shouted at me for not caring about the victims but maybe that’s why he did it to make me care make me realize that life is precious but he already knows I love my son knows I would kill myself to keep that baby safe knows I would kill myself to keep him safe why is this so hard just pull out the gun and shoot him he did it shoot him JUST SHOOT HIM!_

 

“Bet you weren’t expecting this,” continued John. He was blinking very fast, voice hitching and inexpressive. That wasn’t right, wasn’t near enough to the same nuances as the ones she had placed upon Moriarty’s personality. He pulled his hands from the parka pockets and carefully pulled apart the folds of the parka to reveal a vest full of explosives. “What - would you like me - to make him say - next?” 

 

Sherlock’s heart doubled its speed and her hand slipped around the gun. There was an earpiece in John’s ear. Moriarty was using the same technique as he had on the blind old woman. “Gottle-o-gear. Gottle-o-gear. G-Gottle-o-gear.”

 

“Stop it.”

 

“It’s a nice touch, this. The pool where little Carl died. I stopped him. I can stop John Watson too. Stop his-” A red point of light rolled over onto John’s chest and he nearly rolled his eyes. “Stop his heart.”

 

“Who are you?” Sherlock shouted into the empty room, feeling just as ill as John looked with an unseen rifle aimed at his heart. She wanted to grab him, drag him out of there, tear the bombs away and tell him she was sorry. There wasn’t anything Sherlock wouldn’t do if it meant John walking out in one piece.

 

All the way across the pool a door slammed open and creaked, a sliver of a man’s face barely showing through. In a dramatic stage-whisper that echoed over the tiles, he hissed, “ _I gave you my number. I thought you might call_.” Creeping from the shadows, a familiar man in a well-fit suit emerged, a sleeping baby in his arms. “Careful with that gun now, Sherlock, I’d hate to wake the little one. He’s been so fussy, did you know he has colic?”

 

Sherlock pulled out the gun and aimed at - well, at the wall, really, too afraid that something could happen and Alex would be hurt. Alex was _alive_. Her chest felt ready to cave in from relief and fear.

 

“I know what you’re thinking. _Jim? Jim from the hospital?_ Did I really make such a fleeting impression?” the man continued. “It was rather the point, but still so disappointing that twice now we’ve met, Sherlock, and still you never remember me.” Sherlock blinked. Twice? “Jim Moriarty. _Hi_.

 

“Someone else is holding the gun on Johnny boy, obviously,” Moriarty explained with a nod to the red light on John’s chest. “I don’t like to get my hands dirty, except when it really counts.” He smiled like a snake and hitched Alex a bit higher on his shoulder, carefully cupping his head and making a point to smell the baby’s downy dark hair. The longer Sherlock looked at him the more familiar he became, like from a dream or deja vu. “Come on you, _clever_ you, I’m sure you can put it together.”

 

She stared, silent, not wanting to put it together if it made the man holding her child smile so sickeningly. “Give me back my son,” she demanded instead. The gun in her hand was shaking slightly.

 

Moriarty shook his head with a hum and opened another changing stall, pulling out a bomb-lined pram with his free hand and carefully placing Alex there. “Better?” he drawled, but kept the pram nearby so if Sherlock shot there was a great chance the baby could still be hurt. “I’ve given you a glimpse, Sherlock. Just a _teensy glimpse_ of what I’m capable of. Impressive, isn’t it? But that’s not everything. It’s certainly not the beginning, nor is it the end of my reign. I’ve been very interested in you for a _very_ long time. Got yourself quite the reputation at Scotland Yard a few years back, didn’t you? Even with that nasty habit of yours that was so destructive.” His smile faded into a look of barely-muted scorn, or thin disgust.

 

“You were so _pathetic_. I knew you could be better, stronger, _unstoppable_. And I knew your brother was watching, because _I_ was watching too. You really are _radiant_ when you’re desperate. The night your brother cut you off, it was like a dream come true.”

 

She took a half-step away. John was staring between them with something akin to horror and dawning realization on his face.

 

Putting on a deliberate thick persona, Moriarty hunched his shoulders, ducking his head, and muttered, “ _I fink yaknow wha’s gotta happen if ya can’t pay, Miss. I kin let ya go this once wifout, but y’need to do somefin’ for me first, awright?_ ” Within a heartbeat he was a different man, shrouded in the discreet darkness of an alley behind a pub, hood drawn up to hide his eyes. But his jaw had still been visible, a fine layer of stubble covering a narrow chin and curling mouth. They’d both been younger then, but were still unmistakable. It had only been a year, after all. “Oh, how far you’d fallen, Sherlock. Addicted to cocaine, anorexic, masochistic...I knew all I had to do was push you that much further before we could finally be equals. The moment you gave in to me was pure _art_.”

 

“You got me locked up so I would be on an intellectually even ground with you.”

 

“ _Just so_. Though I never expected _this_ outcome, I do admit,” said Moriarty with a pointed nod toward Alex. “But accidents do happen.”

 

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, voice clipped as she felt a droplet of sweat slither down along her spine. She couldn’t decide whether or not to aim the gun at Moriarty or keep it at her waist.

 

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

 

“It doesn’t matter.”

 

“No, alright it doesn’t,” Moriarty admitted with a shrug. “But the flirting’s over, Sherlock. _Daddy’s had enough now_.” His voice sent a shiver down her spine. “I’ve shown you what I can do, all those little problems, all those puzzles - it took me thirty million quid just to get you out of hiding - so take this as a friendly warning, my dear. In fact, take it as your only warning. _Back off,_ because I don’t play nicely with others. I don’t like _complications_ tying up my business. Although...”

 

He crept nearer, hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched like he had a secret. Sherlock waited for him to clear the pram, then aimed at his heart. “I have loved this,” he said, unfazed. “This little game of ours. Playing Jim from IT, playing a skirt-chaser. Did you like my hair? I’ve been experimenting with back-combing...” he trailed off, dreamlike, and Sherlock felt a strong wave of dislike rise in her throat like bile. Even now, with _his own son_ \- even as revulsion rolled over her for allowing this psychopath to touch her, Sherlock refused to be disgusted by her child - wrapped in bombs, Moriarty was still playing, still dancing, still waiting for her to make her next move. Her final move. This was it.

 

“People have died,” she said, trying to sound like John.

 

“That’s what people _DO!_ ” screamed Moriarty, breaking out of his sing-song voice and making the world waver and echo around Sherlock. 

 

Alex woke up and started to cry, startled by the noise. Her heart fluttered painfully in her chest like a heart attack. As unpleasant as it was to hear her son afraid, it reminded Sherlock of why she was still alive at all. “I _will_ stop you.”

 

“No you won’t.”

 

She ignored him - the genius’ kryptonite - in favor of finally turning to face John fully. Deep lines in his face, stress, clear eyes but a bit unsteady, may have been drugged into submission, hint of bruising under his collar that could either be leftover from the Golem’s attack or his abduction, hands forced into his pockets, holding himself as still as possible in the face of the threat of snipers, bravery, so brave, so solid and warm and present and alive and god, _John_. “Are you all right?”

 

When John refused to answer Moriarty sidled closer and gave him a nudge. “You can talk, Johnny-boy. Go ahead.” John nodded once at her, making strong eye contact like he knew she preferred to acting coy.

 

“Take it,” she demanded next, swiftly pulling the memory stick from her pocket and offering it out to Moriarty.

 

Eyebrows twitching with interest, Moriarty came closer. “The _missile plans_ ,” he breathed in awe. He took the stick and kissed it, fondling it between long, elegant fingers. Fingers that had touched Sherlock. Even if she barely remembered that night she still fought a shudder at the idea. “Boring! I could get these anywhere!” 

 

With a delicate flick of the wrist the dummy memory stick went flying into the pool. John took the chance to run forward and fling his explosives-lined arms around the consulting criminal’s neck with a strangled shout of, “ _Sherlock, take Alex and run!_ ”

 

Laughing as though he’d just heard the grandest joke, Moriarty crowed from the hold John had one him. “Oh, _good!_ Very good! Isn’t he sweet? I can see why you like having him around. Though people do get so very sentimental about their _pets_. They’re so touchingly loyal.” On a carefully-constructed whim he craned his neck and pressed a biting kiss to John’s cheek, teeth digging into tender flesh where the Golem’s fingers had been and making John wince. An unexpected flare of possessive anger ripped through Sherlock.

 

Then John was letting go, backing away with both hands raised, eyes wide with terror. Sherlock didn’t need to be a genius to know that the sniper was now aiming at her head, though Moriarty’s monstrous grin did help the thought process along a bit. Groping for purchase in an increasingly slippery situation, Sherlock took half a step away from John and Moriarty and adjusted her grip on the gun’s handle. It was beginning to feel like she was falling apart at the seams again.

 

Moriarty very deliberately brushed himself off and straightened the flawless lines of his bespoke suit. “ _Westwood_ ,” he snipped at John, giving Sherlock a glance that she thought was meant to be one of understanding between them. She didn’t care about clothing brands; Mycroft bought all of her clothes for her. “Now, as I was saying. Do you know what happens now, Sherlock? To you? To your prying?” he asked.

 

“Oh,” she began, trying to sound bored even as her heart continued to race, “let me guess. I get killed?”

 

“ _Kill_ you?” echoed Moriarty, making a grimace of a face that suggested she’d been _so close_ but just off the mark. “No, come on Sherlock, don’t be obvious. I mean, I’m going to kill you anyway, of course. But I’m saving that for something special. That warehouse earlier? That was a test, just to get a feel for your limits. Because I want to save your death for something _really_ special. Sherlock...I’m going to burn you. I will _burn_ the _heart_ out of you.” He smiled apologetically.

 

The hand around the gun tried to tremble but she cut it off. “I’ve been reliably informed that I don’t have one.” John himself had all but implied it. Mrs. Hudson probably thought so by then.

 

With one glance back at John and Alex, Moriarty didn’t need to say, “Now we both know that’s not quite true. But why don’t we get this party started, hm?” Sniffing, down to business, he glanced briefly out over the surface of the pool - did he remember Carl? Killing him? Obtaining the poison at only, what, thirteen? Twelve? - before looking back at Sherlock. “I’m being generous, Sherlock. I’m going to let you go home. but there is a catch.” A reptilian smile spread over his face. “You only get to take one of our lovely boys home with you. Take our boy, the doctor goes _BOOM_. Take lovely Johnny, and I keep the baby as...an _heir_ , of sorts.”

 

“Sherlock, don’t even think about it,” John immediately ordered.

 

It should have been an obvious choice. How many times had Sherlock told John that her son came first? How many times had she reached for the ceiling to show that Alex was the most important thing in her world? And yet looking over Moriarty’s shoulder to John and Alex, the two men in her life who would never let her down, her chest felt oddly tight and her breath came in panicked gasps. “Give us a moment,” she said, hiding her full panic but showing enough strain for Moriarty to think he had one up on her, that he nearly had her burnt or broken. He wagged two fingers at her - two minutes - and sauntered out, made confident by his sniper.

 

As soon as the slamming doors began to echo Sherlock dove toward John and ripped off the bomb vest, throwing it across the floor. “ _Are you alright?_ ”

 

“I’m f-Sherlock!” John choked. She pressed the gun into his hand and stumbled to the pram, pulling Alex into her arms. Even his crying was music to her ears as she pressed shaky kisses to his face and head. He was alive. It didn’t matter how he’d come into the world or by whom, just so long as he stayed in it. “Okay? Sherlock, you okay?”

 

She tore her eyes away from her son to look at John, crumpled against the changing locker. “Hm?” Using her free hand she pushed the pram away to follow the bomb vest. “Oh, yes, I’m fine. John, you...” _insane, beautiful idiot_ , “I mean...that thing you did...” _tackled a madman_ , “...that you offered to do...” _die for me,_ “...i-it was. I mean. It was good.” It was so plain to see that he loved her, now, written all across his stupid face and his good intentions. John Watson would never abandon her, never leave her unprotected. That was why she hurried to his side and placed Alex in the cradle of his arms, tucking the gun back into her pocket. “You need to get out of here, quickly.”

 

“ _What?!_ ” yelped John as Alex wrapped pudgy fingers around the collar of his jumper and started gumming the buttons. “No, Sherlock, don’t be an idiot, he said you had to choose -”

 

Framing his face in both hands, Sherlock briefly pressed her forehead against his, trying to get him to understand, and he fell silent. “I _am_ choosing. It’s just the secret option behind Door Three. John, he wants me dead. That’s no secret. And the longer I let this go on, the better the chance of you or Alex dying anyway, and I-I _can’t let that happen_. It’s now or never. I can try to get you thirty seconds’ head start, so once you’re clear of the building you need to _run_.”

 

John shook his head, gaping. “Sherlock, Alex needs you, you’re his mum!” he insisted.

 

“He doesn’t need me,” laughed Sherlock with a shake of her head. “As long as he has you, and Lestrade, and occasionally Mycroft - but not _too much_ of Mycroft, mind - he should be fine. He doesn’t need a rubbish mum like me.”

 

“ _Don’t you-_ don’t you _dare_ say that.”

 

“ _John!_ ” She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her forehead more against his. “We don’t have time to bicker, he’ll be back soon. Just...John, _I can’t let you die_. To lose you would be nearly as bad as losing my son, and I care for your wellbeing far, _far_ more than I care for my own.” Setting the gun on the tile floor, Sherlock heaved John up by the elbows and pressed a kiss to Alex’s head. She tried not to think about how she would never see him again. What was left of her life was short, so there was no need to dwell. Looking up at John, she tried to show him in the cant of her mouth or the furrow of her brow that she loved him, almost as dearly as he loved her, without saying the words. In the end, the only way she could express it was to slip her mobile into his pocket. “Call Mycroft. He’ll help you get home. Now please, John, _go_.”

 

Hesitating for only a moment, John smiled shakily. “You’re clever, Sherlock. You’ll find a way out of this, just like always. I’ll see you at home.” He wasn’t saying it because he believed it; he was saying it to comfort himself and convince himself not to panic. Sentimental John. Sherlock smiled back at him, waiting until his back vanished out the door to pick up the gun again. Any moment now.

 

Moriarty swung back in through another door about ten feet away, not looking the slightest bit surprised by the change in plans. “So, you did the noble thing. How boring,” he sneered.

 

“Well, what can I say?” Sherlock replied, freezing with her back to him as at least three more sights appeared on her chest. “I thought you’d be changeable.”

 

“Oh, I am _so_ changeable. And amenable, though I suppose you knew that already, didn’t you? Otherwise you wouldn’t have risked it, breaking my rules. Probably everything I have to say has already crossed your mind.”

 

Her heart began to race as the seconds from thirty ticked closer to zero. She never said goodbye to John. “And probably my answer’s crossed yours.” Swiftly turning on the spot, Sherlock aimed the gun - John’s gun, the last piece of him she would ever touch - between Moriarty’s eyes. The moment she pulled the trigger her body would be mincemeat. But maybe, by just some extraordinary stroke of luck, she could cause a distraction and slither away with minimal injury. With a shift of her arm Moriarty’s face hardened, teeth clenched. A smile tugged the corners of Sherlock’s lips; she’d found a soft spot, a chink in the armor, an uncharted result. It was her move - the Endgame.

 

In the breath of time before she pulled the trigger, a tinny strain of music her father had liked coming from Moriarty’s pocket. He rolled his eyes as though embarrassed. “Do you mind if I get that?” he asked.

 

“No, no, please, go right ahead. You’ve got the rest of your life,” she replied, not moving a fraction of an inch.

 

Raising the phone to his ear, Moriarty muttered, “Hello? No, no, I - _SAY THAT AGAIN!_ ” he shrieked, spinning in place quickly enough to make Sherlock flinch. “Say that again, and know that if you are lying to me, I will find you, and I. Will. _Skin you._ ” It was strange to see him gesturing even while on the phone. Sherlock did that too.

 

“ _Wait_ ,” he snapped before dropping the phone to his side. He looked agitated, annoyed, frustrated, mentally trying to get himself together.

 

She asked, “Something more pressing come up?” with a delicately arched eyebrow.

 

Moriarty nodded. “Sorry,” he dully said. “Wrong day to die.”

 

From the moment the mobile rang Sherlock had known this would happen. Moriarty would walk away unscathed, she would run home to John and Alex, apologize to Mrs. Hudson, and everything would be sunshine and rainbows until _he_ chose when next to strike. He knew exactly where she was, but was himself untraceable. The ball would be in his court, and he would have the advantage over her.

 

“Like hell it is,” she spat, and pulled the trigger.


	8. Chapter 8

The water around her was turning red, though Sherlock couldn’t feel where the bullet clipped her. It had only taken the blind dive to her right as she shot the bomb to save herself from being instantly killed. Slowly sinking to the bottom of the pool - she was on the deep end, where people jumped off the diving board and didn’t crack their skulls open - she looked up and watched the ceiling start falling in. The world was eerily silent as the water rose around her. When Sherlock hit the bottom she waited as long as she could before kicking up, propelling herself back toward the surface with air bubbles flowing from her mouth and nose just before she broke free. The ceiling was still falling in, so she only dared stay above the water long enough to suck in another breath before forcing herself back under.

 

She fell into a pattern of rising, letting out air, breathing deep, and sinking until she hit the bottom again to kick up. Her head was swimming, hazy, her vision going cross and wide as she tried to keep her eyes open to avoid falling debris. With every move other than stroking up her body screamed in pain. The red was getting thicker around her. The whole world was wavering and shimmering with the tumultuous waves of the pool and lights reflected all around. Disorienting.

 

Several small and fragmented _somethings_ floated into her line of vision as she sank for what felt like the hundredth time. Fingernails. Sherlock looked at her hands and saw they were intact. It was a small comfort to know that she at least had achieved what she went in for, even if she was likely going to die. Things were getting dark, and weariness was dragging at her, hindering her way upwards with each kick.

 

Sherlock hit the bottom and drifted, legs falling to the side as her muscles finally gave out. Her stinging eyes slipped shut and wouldn’t open again. The spot where there had been a faint hope of survival, of seeing John and her son again, was filled with stony silence. There was no longer any sign that she would make it out alive. Debris starting falling more frequently all around her; it was only a matter of time before something hit her, knocked her out, and she drowned with Moriarty’s blood in her lungs.

 

_No. No, one last kick up_ , she berated herself, just get to the surface and grab onto the nearest floating object. Get to the edge, get home, find John. Sherlock forced her eyes open, kicked with all her strength, but didn’t hit the bottom of the pool. Her body had drifted sideways and she hadn’t felt it. Lungs screaming, head light, and heart quietly despairing, Sherlock gave in. 

Cold, chlorine-tasting, smoky, water filled her lungs and made her body convulse in an attempt to expel it. Her brain spasmed and screamed for oxygen, stars danced in front of her eyes, and just above her an enormous dark shape broke the surface of the water. Two strong _something_ s wrapped around her torso and dragged as she lost consciousness.

 

_I’m sorry, Alex._

 

\---

 

She is six years old and can hear Mummy crying all the way upstairs. Mye is up there too, knocking on Sherlock’s bedroom door, but she isn’t in there. She is crouched in the space behind the fireplace, drawing with her fingers in the dusty spot the maids always miss. She’s tired and she’s sad but doesn’t know why. It’s hot outside. The doctor’s office was not fun. Sherlock is hiding from her brother because he was scary. He shouted at the doctor. Even if the doctor was rubbish, Mye was acting really, really scary and made her whole head itch.

 

“Sherlock?” 

She looks up and finds Daddy watching her from the door. Rather than telling her to get out of the space behind the fireplace, he comes nearer and crouches down so they’re at eye-level with one another. “What are you drawing, sweetheart?” he asks. His eyes are smiling, and he looks like Mye.

 

She doesn’t want to say, but Daddy looks interested. “Skull.” 

 

Mummy usually gets mad when she draws, but Daddy creeps closer, sprawling on his stomach, and peers in to look. “That has to be the nicest skull I’ve seen in ages,” he smiles up at her. It makes Sherlock happy and she smiles back for a moment. Then she frowns again, and Daddy stops smiling too. “What’s on your mind, Sherlock?”

 

Before she can duck her head Daddy tickles her under the chin, not trying to make her squirm and twitch like the old ladies at the park, just catching her attention. “You won’t tell Mummy?” she asks. Daddy shakes his head and locks his lips with an invisible key. Sherlock’s glad that locking his lips doesn’t stop him smiling. Picking at a scab on her knee, she mutters, “I don’t want to go back to the doctor.”

 

Daddy’s face falls. “What did the doctor say to you, Sherlock? When you were alone with him. Was he okay?” he asks, leaning closer.

 

“He said I oughtn’t tell.”

 

“Well, you can tell old Dad, can’t you, love?”

 

She thinks about it for a few minutes before deciding that Daddy is very good at keeping secrets. “Well, he asked me what I like. So I showed him my book about bee detectives. Then he asked me about bees and so I told him all about them. Then he asked me about other things that were stupid and boring, and I said they were stupid and boring. That made him...”

 

“Made him what?”

 

“Well, I dunno. I think it was like your face when Mrs. Next-Door called Mummy a naughty word, and then you called her a no-good-”

 

Daddy laughs and shushes her. “I know what face you mean, Sherlock. That wasn’t a nice face he made at you. Did it give your tummy the willies?” She nods, and Daddy sighs. “I’ll see if I can talk to Mummy, but she really wants you to keep going. You know it’s because she loves you, don’t you, my pet?”

 

She nods again. “I know, Daddy. Will the doctor fix me?” she asks.

 

Something strange passes over Daddy’s face that makes her face get hot. His throat makes a funny noise when he swallows and he sits up onto his knees, taking Sherlock’s shoulders in his hands. “Now you listen to me, Sherlock,” he says in a voice like the gravel driveway. “The doctor _can_ not and _will_ not fix you.” 

Her mouth falls open. That’s a terrible thing to say. 

“Do you know why?” 

She shakes her head and Daddy leans closer. “Because there is _nothing_ wrong with you, Sherlock. You are _not_ broken. You can’t fix something that’s already perfect, do you hear me? You’re my little girl, and you are fine _just_ the way you are. Seeing the world differently doesn’t mean you need to be fixed or changed, and if anyone tries to make you change, then they aren’t worth being your friend. Do you understand me?”

 

Speechless, she nods. Daddy hugs her tight, just the way she likes. “The doctor’s going to try to help you, make it easier for you to talk to people, but not make you change to fit in. You see? That might be fun.”

 

“Maybe.”

 

“Now, how about we get out of here and you play me something lovely on your violin, eh?”

 

\---

 

Sherlock came to, only for a moment, as the water was pushed from her lungs by a hand to the diaphragm. There was smoke and confusion everywhere, and if she weren’t so wet she might have felt Lestrade dripping on her. Before anyone could reach her line of sight she slipped away again.

 

\---

 

She is twelve and Mummy hit her four hours ago. It’s hard to understand why she still wants to cry. Crying is useless and doesn’t get anyone anywhere; it just makes people dehydrated. Daddy is very cross with Mummy and won’t speak to her. Sherlock is old enough now to know that sometimes parents split up from one another. She wishes Mummy and Daddy would split up for how often they fight. Then maybe she could live with Daddy. That could be fun.

 

Mummy starts to cry, loudly, from the bedroom down the hall. Sherlock’s stomach twists. She doesn’t know why hearing Mummy cry still makes her feel sick. She wants to call Mycroft on the phone, but he’s too busy for her now that he’s in uni.

 

There’s a knock on the door and Daddy pokes his head in. “How are you, my love?” he whispers. He looks so tired and miserable that Sherlock can’t even be angry with him. She shows him where Mummy hit her and he swallows like there’s something big in his throat. It’s clear to see that Daddy doesn’t like when Mummy hits her, wants to make her stop, but he’s afraid of her too. If he does too much to try making her stop, then Mummy could just get rid of him, make him go away, tell the police that he hurt Sherlock and have him locked up. Sherlock is too young to know this yet.

 

“It doesn’t hurt, much,” she tells Daddy so he can feel better.

 

He smiles sadly. “On the outside, or the inside?”

 

Then she finally starts to cry, because her inside hurts a whole lot.

 

\---

 

Her eyes opened just after they shocked her. Pain roared across her synapses but she couldn’t scream, her body still arching up off the ground with the electric current. “ _She’s back!_ ” one of the paramedics announced. An oxygen mask was put over her mouth and nose. It was too loud, too bright, so Sherlock closed her eyes again.

 

\---

 

She is nineteen and Father is dying.

 

It’s not like in the movies, where it’s sad and sudden and usually unseen in a tragic accident. It’s slow, and scary. It starts with stomachaches, lots of them. Father changes his diet but it doesn’t matter. Then he starts getting dizzy, and throwing up, until he can’t eat at all but his stomach is swelling. That’s when he goes to the specialist. Cancer. It eats him slowly.

 

Sherlock leaves university at the end of her second fall term, when it’s clear that Father will not get any better. He can’t leave his bed. The specialists gave him a prognosis of three months, but they all know he won’t last three weeks. He’s in such terrible pain, but won’t abuse the medication he’s been given. “I want to be awake for this,” Father always says when one of them offers to give him something more. Usually it’s accompanied by a squeeze of Sherlock’s hand and a sunny smile. Though he’s pale and waxen-looking, he never stops smiling.

 

“Will you be alright?” he asks her one night, when Mummy’s asleep and Mycroft’s working.

 

Leaning on top of his mattress, head framed between her hands, Sherlock smiles and shakes her head. “You have skewed priorities,” she says fondly.

 

“But will you?”

 

She wilts slightly, grasps his hand and tries not to look at him. “I think so. I won’t really know if I’m alright until I’m not. But I. I think I’ll miss you. Every day, I think I’ll spare a moment for missing you no matter what.”

 

“Oh, my love,” Father says softly, tickling her under the chin until she looks up. “I am so proud of you, do you know that? You never let them change you. Still such a lovely little oddball. The whole world is so vast and so strange and full of mysteries that I just know you can solve. Don’t bother with missing me too much, alright? You’re a busy girl. Well, woman now, eh? When did that happen? You were just a baby last week, I swear.”

 

Tears sting her eyes.

 

He dies five days later. In the last few hours he can’t speak, can’t hear, doesn’t see them all gathered round his deathbed. Sherlock pumps him with drugs so it won’t hurt. When he finally stops breathing it’s like a heavy weight lifts from over the room, even as the sharp pain of grief settles over them all. Mother screams and storms out when Sherlock won’t cry. She and Father said their goodbyes ages ago, and she does not want Mother to see her grieving. Sherlock has always felt more strongly in private, and will not let her mother’s expectations change that about her.

 

Another four days later, there is a headstone in the family plot with the name Alexander Barthes Holmes inscribed upon its surface. Sherlock visits once a week, and then once a month, and then only when she remembers. It’s hard to keep up with the times when she forgets her own address more often than not. But she never changes herself, never apologizes, and never loses heart.

 

\---

 

“Sherlock, wake up, love.”

 

For a moment she was convinced the voice belonged to her father, opened her eyes and expected to see him above her. But then her vision cleared, and of course it was John. Her father was dead. John was alive. It took longer than she would be comfortable admitting to remember why that was a good thing, or what had happened to land her in hospital at all. “John?” she croaked.

 

He smiled and scooted his chair closer, closing his hand around hers. “You’ve been in and out all day; we were worried,” he told her, free hand drifting up to gently brush against her hairline. “How are you feeling?”

 

“Where...where’s...th’baby?” she muttered, blinking and still confused. The lights were bright and buzzing, monitors at her bedside beeping, the air stifling, stinking of disinfectant, and her head and chest hurt as though they had been jumped on for at least an hour each. “Isse...John, he-”

 

John hushed her gently. “Alex is fine, Sherlock. He’s with Sergeant Donovan - I know, I know, but she was the only person available. Lestrade is investigating the scene with forensics, trying to find as much of Moriarty as possible. Mrs. Hudson’s still laid up, your brother’s working, and I’m, well, here. But we’re fine, Sherlock, we’re all fine.”

 

With a relieved sigh, her eyelids drooped and she fell asleep.

 

\---

 

She is thirty-four years old, and her son is six, when he asks her, “Mum, am I an oddball?”

 

“Of course you are, darling,” she replies over her shoulder with a smile. Only when Alex doesn’t reply does she realize that he is deviating from her affectionate nickname for him. Turning to face him, Sherlock drops to a crouch so she can see his eyes. He’s been playing in Mrs. Hudson’s bins with the cat again. “What’s on your mind, sweetheart?”

 

When Alex doesn’t look up she tickles him under the chin, not to make him squirm and twitch like the old ladies at the park do, but just enough to get him to look at her and smile. “One of the girls at school called me a-an oddball. Well. A freak, actually.”

 

“She called you a freak? Who?”

 

He shakes his head. “I’m not telling or you’ll get cross and shouty. I’m just wondering if I am one.”

 

Feeling the sudden weight of her years, Sherlock puts her hands on her son’s shoulders. “It doesn’t matter what they say,” she tells him sternly. “They don’t see the world like we do, you and I, so they don’t know that really, there’s nothing wrong with you at all. You’re my boy, and you’re perfect _just_ as you are. Don’t let them try to change you, fit you in their box, okay? It’s hard being different, I know it’s hard, but I want you to be who you are, not who they want you to be. And when it gets hard, I want you to try to talk to me. I want to help you when I can.”

 

After a long moment, Alex nods. “Okay, Mum.”

 

Before he can squirm away to play upstairs in his room, Sherlock pulls him in closer. “Hold on a second, I have a secret,” she tells him, and instantly he stills, knowing what’s coming. She presses their foreheads together until they have to cross their eyes to see one another, giggling softly. “Alex,” she whispers, “I love you very, very much.”

 

“I love you too Mum,” he whispers back, and then runs off, slipping easily out of her grasp.

 

She’s still crouched on the floor when John tromps up the stairs. “Sherlock?” he asks mildly, hanging his scarf on the wall-hook next to Alex’s favorite pink raincoat.

 

As he watches she stands, grasps his hands, smiles. Today’s the day, it feels right. She’s going to tell him. Breathing deep, she looks into his honest, open, face, and falters. It’s there, sitting between them like a stone, and maybe that’s why she can’t find the words when the moment feels right. John just smiles, because he can see it too, has known for far longer than she has that she loves him, and doesn’t need it out loud when she shows him every day.

 

“I love you too,” he says.


	9. Epilogue

Sherlock was allowed to go home with a hospital-issue cane - both for the bullet in her leg and for her terrible balance - and a list of prescriptions for her respiratory system. Not only had she inhaled a lungful of water but her heart had stopped and needed to be shocked back to life. She leaned against John’s arm instead of the cane on the way to the cab. Donovan would be meeting them at Baker Street with Alex. She felt oddly anxious on the ride back, uncertain whether she ought to blame her fragile heart or the anticipation of seeing her baby safe again.

 

John made her sit down before she hurt herself trying to get to her son, and gently lowered Alex into her arms for the first time since the explosion. Her eyes fell shut as though in rapture before flying open again, taking everything in - the way the ends of Alex’s hair curled so delicately and nearly vanished in direct sunlight, the deep blue of his eyes, the cautious cupid’s-bow of his pink mouth, the tiny half-moons of his fingernails; Sherlock scarcely dared to touch him. She may as well have been holding him for the first time since he’d been born, no longer forced to reach through the side of an incubator and brush their hands, but actually hold him. They were alive, the both of them, despite the odds against them stacked so high the tops were obscured by clouds and mist.

 

A hand touched her shoulder, thumb gently brushing the back of her neck. She looked up at John and saw him smiling. Donovan had apparently let herself out - Sherlock frowned; she’d wanted to thank her. “Back home at last,” he said with relief evident. “Maybe this time we can stay out of the hospital for more than a week running for a while? I think we’re getting a reputation at - Sherlock, what’s wrong?”

 

Swiping the sudden tears away with her free hand, Sherlock shook her head. “I’m just realizing how lucky I am.”

 

Later that night, after Alex was safely settled in his crib and John had put Sherlock to bed a few feet away, they lay down with his arm looped over her waist, looking out the window, his head resting on top of hers. “So, do you think you’ll ever tell him, when he’s older?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“That his dad is...you know. Moriarty.”

 

She thought on it for less than a second before replying, “No. No child likes to hear that their parents are psychopaths.”

 

“You’re not a psychopath.”

 

“...Thank you, John. Besides, I think I might just tell him that. Well.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“I might just tell him that - uh - you. Were. His dad, I mean. I think he’d prefer having you. If you’re amenable.”

 

John was silent.

 

“Of course, I understand if you don’t, and you can forget I ever said-”

 

His arm wrapped more tightly around her, his breathing tight. “Oh, Sherlock, of _course_ I’m ‘amenable’. Of course. I bloody love you, of course I’ll be his dad. _Sherlock_...”

 

“Alright, alright, no need to get all sentimental about it,” she groused at him. She tilted her head away to hide her smile in the pillows.


End file.
